


Different Phantoms

by LilyK



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Dark, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:31:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyK/pseuds/LilyK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cowley puts Bodie and Doyle on a unsettling spree killer case and much to Doyle's dismay, he's slowly discovering that he is involved in ways that he doesn't understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Different Phantoms

Doyle wasn't one to be squeamish around bullet wounds and blood spatter and dead bodies. He'd been personally responsible for many of those things during his career with CI5. He'd been on the receiving end of far too many wounds and the spilling of his own blood. 

This was different. 

The horrific tableau spread out before him was enough to make any man sick, and he dearly wanted to look away. Blood was the paint of the day, red the chosen colour. It was everywhere, coating the dead woman's body as if an abstract artist had taken gallons of paint and tossed it every which way, then rolled in it and ran about the room gleefully waving his arms. 

Red footprints dotted the stained rug on which the woman lay. They trailed off across the dirty floor of the room, disappearing only when the blood had apparently worn off the killer's shoes. Sunlight streamed through the roof of the abandoned warehouse, dappling the blood with dancing motes of brightness. Doyle swallowed hard, his belly churning. 

What he could tell from walking around the perimeter of the scene was that the woman had had long red hair, was slim and seemed to be in her mid to late twenties. It was hard to tell with the blood coating her face but the shape indicated a young woman who took good care of herself. On one eyelid, he could make out blue eye shadow. 

Doyle paused, looking over at Bodie. His partner stood about fifteen feet away, hands buried deep in his pockets. He was staring at the body as if he were committing the details to memory. Doyle followed Bodie's line of sight and tried to inspect the dead woman dispassionately. Being dispassionate didn't work but being professional did. Doyle made himself study the body more minutely. Her white trousers were coated with large splotches of red. Where the blood had begun to dry, it was rust coloured. Her bright pink jumper was splashed with more blood. The disturbing thing, if one thing were more unsettling than another, was that the woman's legs were spread and where her genitals should have been was a large gaping wound. 

The killer hadn't bothered removing her trousers; had sliced through the material to get at the skin, muscles and organs beneath. Doyle was horrified at how any human being could do this to another. 

"Excuse me," said the man snapping pictures. 

"Sorry," Doyle muttered, stepping out of the way of the CI5 forensics people. 

Paul Phillips and a bloke he didn't know by name were working the scene. He glanced at the man for a moment, recognising him from trips to the forensics lab. He hadn't worked with CI5 for long and until today, Doyle hadn't said more than a few passing words to the fellow. Now he looked at the new lad more closely. A good excuse not to look at the victim. About his own age, with wavy brown hair that looked like it tended to become unruly curls much like his own when it got too long. Intelligent brown eyes, and a slim figure. This bloke was attractive in an unassuming way. Nothing made him stand out; he wasn't what Doyle would call handsome. With an internal reprimand at making judgements, Doyle gave the man another perusal. Dark rimmed spectacles hung from his shirt pocket, and the tops of pens poked out, along with a Cadbury's snack. Doyle wondered if the chocolate had melted from the man's body heat. _What a stupid thing to wonder at a time like this_ , he berated himself, annoyed that he was wasting time when he should be investigating. 

Phillips must have seen Doyle's curious look because he tipped his head towards the new man. "David Porter. Ray Doyle, 4.5. The other bloke is Bodie. He responds to 3.7," Phillips said, waving his clipboard towards Bodie. 

Porter looked at Doyle briefly. "Hello," he said before he returned to his work, taking even more photographs. 

Doyle got the feeling that he'd been dismissed as uninteresting. Porter, however, kept looking at Bodie. Score another one for his partner. Man or woman, it didn't matter. They all admired Bodie's good looks and cool demeanour. Doyle hid a smirk and went back to surveying the scene. He was instantly sorry he'd had to do so. The sight of the mutilated woman made him ill all over again 

Phillips made notes on his clipboard, walking this way and that. He blocked Doyle's view for a few moments, giving Doyle time to regroup. He slowly took in a breath and let it out deliberately, using a yoga mantra to calm his thudding heart. Looking over at Bodie, he swiped at his sweaty forehead. He briefly wondered if Bodie hated seeing such slaughter as much as he did, or had Bodie seen worse in his merc days? 

Because Doyle had never seen this much blood, not even when he'd discovered Sid's body. Not when he and Bodie had stood over the bodies of the Irishmen killed by the Turkels. Not from the men he himself had killed. 

Bodie hadn't moved, standing beside Cowley while the lab boys did their job. Cowley was furious. His lips were pressed together tightly, making them a thin white line. His brow was knitted; he took off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

Doyle saw his own thoughts reflected on Bodie and Cowley's faces. 

Whoever had done this was mad. Had to be. Madness terrified them. Madness couldn't be controlled. 

Doyle swallowed around the lump in his throat. Give him a terrorist with a mission any day. Cowley moved away, speaking in hushed tones to Phillips. Walking over to his partner, he stood close to him. He reckoned it was rhetorical to ask but he couldn't help himself. "Who'd do something like this to another human being?" 

Bodie harrumphed. Doyle glanced over at his partner. Bodie for all his portrayal of a hardcore, unfeeling ex-mercenary looked as green around the gills as Doyle felt. It wasn't often that they were ordered to attend a crime scene where a woman had been killed. Where her body had been mutilated. Where somebody had butchered her, hacking out hunks of skin and muscle and tissue. 

Doyle turned away. Bodie moved close to him. "Doesn't make you want to run to the pub for grub, eh? Something nice and gooey, with gravy dripping-" 

"Stuff it," Doyle hissed. He wasn't in the mood to be humoured out of feeling shocked at the tableau. 

Bodie smirked, elbowing Doyle in the ribs. "If we're stuffing anything, I think we should tell Cowley to put this assignment right up his bum." He glanced sideways at Doyle. "This isn't our sort of thing. We're not coppers. Coppers investigate murders." 

"No, it's not our sort, but still...," Doyle looked down at his shoes, sighed heavily and closed his eyes. "But I'd like to put a bullet into whoever did this to that woman." 

"This case is getting special treatment." Bodie's tone was cold, as if he was surprised that some cases warranted extra while others did not. 

Doyle didn't care. Not this time. "Yeah. I know. Think about it. If Cowley wants us to take this on and if we can get this nutter, why not do it? We're the best. It's no matter that this woman is- was - some diplomat's sister. Not to me," Doyle said vehemently. "She deserves justice."

"So we soldier on?" Bodie asked, his eyebrow raised. 

Doyle was warmed at Bodie's look of acknowledgement and acceptance of his passionate words. If he wanted this case, Bodie was beside him all the way. He gave his partner a ghost of a smile. "Let's get this bastard." 

Phillips approached them, pushing his glasses up on his nose. "Bodie, this is Porter." He pointed his pen towards the new bloke. "He's still learning the ropes." 

"Great," Bodie said. "Nothing like being broken in on a thing like this." He peered at Porter, shaking his head. 

Doyle noticed that Porter was pale and sweating. Anybody would be sick at the sight they had to examine. "Take deep even breaths. Don't dwell on the idea that it was a person," Doyle offered sympathetically. 

"I've been with CI5 for almost six months," Porter said meekly. "But- but this..." He stammered. "It's..." He licked his lips and sighed audibly. 

Bodie rolled his eyes. "Green as grass." 

"We all have to learn at some time," Doyle said with sympathy for the fellow. 

Porter gave Doyle a grateful glance before he hurriedly looked down at his clipboard, a duplicate to the one Phillips carried. Pen in hand, he awaited Phillips' orders. 

"Make sure you log in all the evidence bags," Phillips instructed. 

Doyle could tell Phillips liked having a flunky to order about. Porter seemed to be the perfect candidate. 

"Yes, sir," Porter said. 

"Time, date, location. Mark each bag as well," Phillips said. 

"Yes, sir." Porter nodded. 

Doyle glanced at Porter. Probably fresh out of university. Must have had good credentials and marks in school for Cowley to have hired him. That, or he was a relative of one of Cowley's old boys. Cowley wasn't above giving favours. He liked having something to use when he had need of special requests. _Reciprocation made the government go round_ , Doyle thought sarcastically. 

Porter moved closer to Doyle. Too close, as far as Doyle was concerned. He took a step back, hoping it wasn't obvious that he had moved away. The lad was all right, he supposed, or Cowley wouldn't have take him on. The obvious odour of stale cigarettes wafting off his clothing wasn't pleasant. 

"Time of death?" Bodie asked, giving Doyle a curious look. 

Doyle lifted an eyebrow. Bodie mirrored the movement. Doyle stifled a chuckle. They had a strange way of communicating. Bodie: _What?_ Doyle: _Nothing._ Bodie: Doyle returned his attention to what Phillips was saying. 

Phillips looked at the body before he said, "Four to six hours ago." 

Doyle nodded. "Midnight to three." 

"Right," Phillips said. "Porter, make a note. I'd like chicken and chips for lunch. Mind you don't buy them from the same place as last time. My dinner was cold." 

Porter's eyes widened. Doyle would have sworn he saw a moment's outrage but it was gone so quickly he was sure he was mistaken. Porter started to make a note. "Damn," he muttered, scratching the pen against the paper. He shook it, tried again. "Bugger." 

"Here," Doyle offered, holding out his own pen. "I shall need that returned to me." 

Porter gave Doyle a dazzling smile. "Thank you, sir." 

Porter had large uneven teeth, with a hint of yellow from the fags. He supposed some birds would call him cute. Doyle called him... What? Unsettling? Daft, that. No reason Porter should bother Doyle. Doyle was the one being strange. "Doyle's fine. Or 4.5. Cowley's the sir around here," Doyle said. 

"Yes, sir- 4.5. Cheers." 

"Come on, then," Phillips said. "Don't dawdle." He pushed his glasses up, then hurried off. 

Porter cast Doyle a last glance, shrugged and grinned, then turned to follow his mentor. 

"Got an admirer," Bodie said, poking Doyle's arm with his elbow. 

"Look who's talking." 

"Eh?" 

"Don't be all innocent with me, mate. You know Phillips has been panting after you for two or three years now." 

Bodie looked genuinely confused. "He has?" 

Doyle snickered. "Christ, but you're thick. Don't even know when someone's making eyes at you." 

Bodie shrugged. "Got you, haven't I. I'm not interested in other blokes. Or birds for that matter. Not any more." 

"Good thing. I'd hate to have to kill you in your sleep." Doyle ran a finger over the butt of his gun. 

Bodie's eyes widened. "No, sir. Not me. I'm as loyal as the day is long. Shall we?" He waved a hand towards the outer door. 

"Yeah. We'd best get to it. Phillips?" The man looked over. "Photographs?" 

"Give me a couple of hours!" Phillips said, aggrieved. "I'm not a magician! You think pictures come out of the camera instantly?" 

"Well, yeah," Doyle said sarkily. "They're called Polaroids." 

Phillips waved dismissively. Porter smiled at Doyle. Doyle ignored him. Bodie tugged on his sleeve and together they walked to the Capri. 

They were five minutes away when Doyle said, "Damn it. I forgot me pen."

"Don't worry, pet," Bodie said in falsetto. "I'll get snookums a new pretty one for his birthday."

"Go jump off a bridge," Doyle said. "Better make it a pack of a dozen at this rate." 

"I'll make a note." 

\---------------------------------

Doyle was aware that Cowley was not best pleased that the case hadn't been solved in fifteen minutes flat. After all, Doyle thought disgustedly, he expected magic from his agents. Hey presto, and the evidence presented itself instantly. Abracadabra, the suspects confessed. Case closed. 

"What do we have so far?" Cowley asked, his impatience showing. He leaned back in his chair and twirled his glasses by the stem. 

Doyle shifted in his seat, ignored Bodie's eye roll of impatience and leaned forward. "Sir, you're being unreasonable. The body was discovered ten hours ago. We've studied the photographs; canvassed the area. There were no witnesses. There isn't an occupied house or flat or shop within a mile of those disused warehouses!" He slapped the palm of his hand on the desk, his annoyance with Cowley showing. "We've not stopped for anything but one swallow of water and a toilet break. If Bodie doesn't eat a decent meal, he's going to chew off his own arm." 

Cowley's eyes narrowed. "I expect such tasteless humour from 3.7, 4.5, but I don't expect it from you." Ice dripped from his controller's words. 

Doyle blushed. "Sorry, sir." He honestly hadn't meant to make a reference to body parts. Bodie gave him a smirk. Doyle punched his arm. 

"Gentlemen," Cowley said sharply, his authoritative tone cutting off any more shenanigans. 

"Sir," Bodie said. "Who called this in?" 

"Anonymous to New Scotland Yard," Cowley said. 

"Anonymous? Don't they keep tapes? Logs?" Bodie asked. 

"Of course, but there was nothing on the tape. The voice was disguised. No surprise there. It gave bare facts, location, then hung up." Cowley made an annoyed sound. "The body you saw was victim number two. There's another. Called into The Yard yesterday." 

"Yesterday?" Bodie said. "And I suppose because of bureaucracy the two efficient branches of the law didn't realise they were being played at first?" he added bitingly. 

Cowley half stood up and leaned on his hands. "3.7, you are coming very close to insubordination. I do not run New Scotland Yard so taking out your disgust at their abilities is not my department!" 

Bodie blew out an annoyed breath before his face became a cool mask of indifference. "Yes, sir. So what are the similarities of the crimes and when can we hear the calls?" 

Doyle scrubbed at his eyes. Bodie and his annoying ability to turn military in a blink of an eye. Now he was being the efficient agent. He wasn't in the mood to be civil, let alone coming off like a sodding soldier at attention. Maybe the death scene they'd witnessed earlier hadn't bothered Bodie but it sure as hell bothered him. 

"You all right, 4.5?" Bodie asked, his crooked eyebrow hitting his hairline. 

Doyle didn't answer, merely glared. Bodie shrugged, returning his attention to Cowley. 

Cowley straightened to scan a few pages of the stack on his desk before he let out a small sigh. "This isn't the first time that young women have been killed in such a fashion." 

"What?" Doyle asked, his tiredness pushed back for now. "When?" 

"One thing at a time. First, the historical information. The answer regarding when this sort of killing had happened before is twenty-two years ago," Cowley said. "Arthur Pennywell was caught, tried and convicted in 1960. He was summarily hanged by the Crown in 1961." 

"Hanged?" Doyle echoed. 

"Had the death penalty back then," Bodie offered. 

Doyle grimaced. Because he knew about it didn't mean he had to like it. Yet he was being hypocritical. He'd execute this killer without second thought. 

"What? The Crown executing a criminal is bad but when we do it, it's good?" Bodie asked. 

Doyle didn't meet Bodie's eyes. He couldn't see Bodie's disdain of Doyle's own brand of right and wrong. Then again, they did kill for the realm. Why was it any different. Maybe Bodie was right but Doyle wasn't going to admit it. Not right now. His nerves were too raw. "Is that the file?" 

"Yes," Cowley said. "I've obtained the Met's official papers." 

"What made you look for it, sir?" Doyle asked. 

"When I was at the scene today, I remembered something similar from long ago. I was out of military service in 1960 and had been employed in a position that isn't any of your concern, only that I was in a department that answered to Whitehall." Cowley looked over Doyle's head, his eyes taking on an unfocused aura. "I had full intentions to work my way up the ranks into MI5 but at that time, I was required to push a lot of paper. I recalled reading about a series of murders in the daily papers." He blinked and refocused on Doyle and Bodie. "Seven bodies in seven days. Kirstie is getting the back copies of the newspapers for you both to study." 

Doyle leaned forward, listening intently. Cowley didn't often discuss his private life. Doyle found the man interesting even if he was exasperating and annoying at times. "Seven bodies? This is the second day and you've got another one already. Christ. Is it a pattern? Are you expecting five more?" Doyle wasn't sure he could handle five additional slaughtered women. 

"Aye, and you've got to get moving to inspect number one. The scene is still secure although the body has been moved. You'll be supplied with photographs that you can examine while you survey the scene." Cowley handed over a slip of paper. "They're waiting for the both of you before the scene is cleared. Here's the address." 

Doyle took it and made a mental note of the address. Another deserted warehouse district, close to where Matheson and King had been blown to bits by Wakeman years ago. 

"Christ," Bodie muttered. "It's one thing to be in the jungle or in a war and shooting the enemy but deliberately plotting the murder of anybody... Not for revenge or jewels or money." He shook his head. "Not even because of jealousy or sex or bloody drugs." 

"Why do you think this has anything to do with a dead convicted killer?" Doyle asked Cowley. 

"Because, even all those years ago, detectives investigating the case kept something back; out of the newspapers." Cowley tapped one of the photographs of the current case. "The newspapers never knew that the killer always laid out the victim on an expensive Oriental carpet." 

"Oh! I remember seeing the carpet under the woman but I'm embarrassed to admit I thought it was a convenient piece of rubbish left behind," Doyle said. 

"Did they trace the carpeting, sir?" Bodie asked. "Were they all purchased from the same place?" 

"Not that I can find." 

"What do you want us to do next?" asked Doyle. "After visiting the first crime scene." 

"I've discovered that one of the police officers who'd investigated the case is still alive. He's elderly, of course, but I understand he has a good long term memory." Cowley put another scrap of paper on the desk. Bodie picked it up. 

"Former DCI George Gently. Lives in Newham." Bodie handed Doyle the paper. "Crime scene first and then a visit to Mr Gently?" 

Doyle folded it, tucking it in his inner pocket. "Might as well get on with it." 

"Dinner on the way?" Bodie asked. Once on his feet, he rubbed his hands together with glee. 

"Crime scene first," Cowley ordered. "If you must eat, make it takeaway and eat in the car. Former Chief Inspector Gently is an old man. He might have valuable information that won't wait on you two wasting HM's time and wages. Phillips will meet you there with photographs and any lab results they've got so far." 

"Yes, sir," Bodie said, giving an irreverent salute. Cowley glared; Doyle shook his head. Bodie, always the prankster. 

"How can you eat," Doyle murmured, "after this morning's crime scene?" 

Bodie grabbed his jacket from the hatstand and tossed Doyle his. He opened the door, waving his partner through. "I'm a growing-" 

"Yeah, yeah," Doyle grumbled, using his fingers to mimic Bodie's mouth moving. "Fuel to your furnace, your body's a finely tuned, blah blah, and all that rubbish."

"My treat," Bodie offered. 

Doyle understood that Bodie was trying to take his mind off this morning's details so he pretended to play along. "All right. You're on. I could murd- Sorry. I'd enjoy some fish 'n chips." He followed his partner to the car park. It took every ounce of his willpower to push away the visceral images of the dead woman from this morning. The idea that this killer could be stalking his next victim this moment was something Doyle refused to think about. 

\----------------------------

Doyle would have preferred not to look at the victim's photographs but he had no choice. After a rough scrub at his eyes with his knuckles, he focused on the tableau he was once again forced to inspect. 

As with the earlier body, this dead woman had been in the same position. Laid out on a Persian style rug, she was covered in blood. He looked from the photograph to the room in which she'd been killed. It was a smaller area, with wooden walls that were sprayed with blood. Doyle wondered if the killer wore some sort of protective gear. Or did the killer enjoy the blood clinging to his skin, his mouth, his eyelids. Did he lick his lips and revel in the taste? Did he enjoy standing in the shower, watching the water being coloured red as he washed his hair, soaped himself? Or did he let the blood dry on his flesh, admire it in the mirror, flick off dried flakes and watch them drift to the floor? Doyle shivered. Bodie must have noticed because he moved closer and put a hand under his elbow. Bodie squeezed gently before he stepped away, holding up one of the crime scene photos. After casting Doyle a rueful look, he made a circuit of the room, his dark eyes inspecting everything. 

Doyle followed, somehow getting a grip on himself. He managed to concentrate on the details rather than the idea that a few hours ago, the person who had been killed had been a living, breathing human being, with friends, family, dreams, desires. 

"Wait," Doyle said, freezing instantly. 

"Eh?" Bodie asked from a few feet in front of Doyle. Bodie had made his trek anti-clockwise to Doyle and he now stood looking at Doyle inquisitively. 

Doyle shuffled through the pictures twice. "Look. She's missing an earring." 

Bodie looked over his shoulder. "How can you tell?" 

Doyle pointed to one photograph. He pulled out another, tapped it. "She has pierced ears and she's got only one earring in on the left. Tiny thing, a diamond chip. What do you think? Given the size of her earlobe, 6mm? What is that in inches?" 

"About a quarter of an inch," Bodie offered. 

"Show off." He looked around, checking the carpet. Then he walked in a circle. "I don't see its mate." 

"Probably around here somewhere. With this mess, something that small might have been smashed or carried off on the bottom of somebody's boot." Bodie walked closer to the walls, eyes to the floor. 

Doyle lifted his own foot, stared. He checked the other trainer. "Nothing. Come over here and lift 'em up." After Bodie showed Doyle the soles of both of his boots, Doyle rubbed his chin. "Phillips?" he called out. "Did you find an earring? Diamond chip with a gold mount?" 

Phillips looked down at the clipboard he held. "Nope. Why?" 

"Body's missing one," Bodie said, pointing. "Look for it." 

Phillips wrote on the paper. "Will do. It's probably lost. Maybe got torn off during the murder." 

"Or when she was kidnapped," Doyle mused. 

"If she had it on at all," Phillips said. "Could have lost it earlier." 

"Could have. Probably not, though," Doyle said. "I think he's got it." 

Bodie nodded. "More than likely. What do the coppers call that? Keeping a memento of a kill. Like hunters want to mount a dead animal on the wall." He shuddered theatrically. "Don't get hunting," he muttered. "Now what?" 

"Wait for the rest of the lab results. We'll compare the photographs of both scenes as well. Until then, let's go and speak to former Detective Chief Inspector Gently." 

"Supper?" Bodie asked hopefully. 

"Will make you dinner back at mine if you can hold out." Doyle tiapped the photos into a neat pile. "I need some time for my head and my belly to settle down from the disco dancing they've been at." 

Bodie looked at Doyle steadily. Doyle saw the affection Bodie held for him in those eyes. He gave his friend a grateful smile. 

Bodie punched his arm. "I understand. I'll wait, but not for long. Hold you to your word, mate. Dinner at yours." 

"Takeaway and you'll pay for your half." Doyle shoved his hands into his pockets. He headed out of the disused warehouse. He saw Porter from the corner of his eye. Turning, he saw the man watching him intently. When he discovered Doyle had noticed, he quickly ducked his head and looked away. Doyle shook his head. "That new bloke is a strange one." He skirted the CI5 transit that Phillips had driven, pulling his keys out of his jacket. 

"Eh?" 

"Porter." 

"Who?" 

"Never mind." 

Bodie picked up their conversation about takeaway without missing a beat. "I'll pay for half and eat three quarters," Bodie said. 

Doyle snickered. "Is that one kilo or two?" 

\----------------------------

"Inspector Gently?" Doyle asked, smiling up at the man standing in the open doorway. 

"You're George's boys," the elderly man stated, his grey-blue eyes full of intelligence. 

"Yes, sir," Bodie said. "I'm Bodie." He showed his identification. "He's Doyle. 

Doyle flashed his ID card also. "Sir." 

"Come in." Gently stood back to allow Bodie entry; Doyle followed on his heels. "Go through to the lounge. On the right." 

"Thank you, sir," Doyle said. He took a seat on the sofa and gave their host the once over. 

Gently was in his early 80s Cowley had said. He was in good shape for a man his age, about 5' 9" and relatively thin with a slight paunch. His hair was a mix of grey and white, and he had a pair of gold rimmed glasses perched on his nose. His eyes were lively and intelligent; Doyle liked him on first meeting. 

"Coffee, gentlemen?" Gently asked, waving to a carafe and cups on the small table to the side of the sofa. 

"Please," Bodie said. "White, two sugars." 

"Shall I pour?" Doyle asked. 

"Thank you." Gently sat down. 

Doyle stood up and poured Bodie's coffee then his own. "Sir?" he asked, looking at Gently. 

"No, thank you. There are biscuits also. Help yourselves." 

"Thank you, sir!" Bodie grinned and took a handful from the plate at his elbow. He munched happily. 

Doyle gave Bodie a theatrical glare about behaving before he went back to his seat. Gently waited until he was sitting down before he started. 

"George said they've had a copycat to the Pennywell killings. That's disturbing news." Gently tapped his nose. "It took a lot of hours on my part, as well as my partner's, to catch that sick bloke. Is this a true copycat or somebody who's read about the murders from some bloody book? Why they write books or make films about this sort of thing is beyond my comprehension." 

"Cowley seems to think it's the real thing," Doyle said. "He pointed out that the information about the Oriental style rugs was never printed in the newspapers. Wouldn't that have come out in trial?" 

"No. Pennywell pleaded guilty when he was caught. He refused a trial and was sentenced to death. Asked for it, actually. He was a strange bird to be sure. He was executed, as you already know," Gently said. 

"Maybe Pennywell wasn't guilty?" Bodie offered. "Maybe the murderer is still out there and something's set him off again to start killing after two decades." 

"No, that's impossible," Gently said. "I know he was guilty. All the evidence I had pointed to him. I was good at my job and I wouldn't have made a mistake like that. Neither would my partner." He looked at both men in turn. "My partner and I covered all the angles, not to mention my governor, plus a solicitor and a judge. The facts were checked a dozen times." Gently paused. "The reporters looked into the nooks and crannies also, as much as they were able." 

"We're not insinuating you did anything wrong, Inspector Gently," Doyle said. 

Gently smiled. "I'm not so sensitive that I can't be found to be wrong, but I know what I know. Pennywell was the killer." 

"All right," Doyle said. "What do you think is happening now?"

Gently's brow furrowed. "I'm not sure. I'd be happy to look at the current crime scene photos and anything else relating to the case. It's what?" He looked over at the mantel. "Half four. We'll know if it's somebody mimicking Pennywell if there's another body discovered by morning." 

Bodie put down the biscuit he'd bitten. "Lost me appetite," he muttered. 

Doyle swallowed around his dry throat. Another victim... "Isn't there something we can do? Alert the public? Something!" 

Gently sighed. "I know how you feel, Mr Doyle. Of course the media could send out announcements but you and I know that rarely stops a killer intent on creating destruction. He will find a victim in the end." He shook his head. "There are more of them than us, police officers or CI5, I'm afraid, but that's no reason to wave the white flag." 

"Tell us how you finally captured Pennywell," Bodie said. "Might help. What was he like? His habits?" 

Doyle leaned forward. "Things not in the file. What you felt or thought, sir. Official documents are one thing but a copper's instincts are another." 

Gently was thoughtful for a few minutes. "He was a monster, of course, truly evil. To speak to the man you wouldn't suspect him for a moment. He wasn't highly educated but he was affable and if you met him at your local, you'd buy him a pint or he'd buy you one. Still, when I looked in his eyes, something was missing." Gently gave a wry smile. "He had no soul, as far as I was concerned. Daft comment from a copper, eh?" 

"No," Doyle said, "not at all. We have to read people all the time. When you're looking down the barrel of a gun you have to know where you stand. A person's eyes can tell you a lot." 

"Not if they're lifeless," Bodie said. "Then you have to shoot, no questions asked." 

"That's a cold statement, mate," Doyle said, knowing full well that Bodie was right. "I don't like thinking that anybody's beyond saving." 

"In your line of work, you still feel that way?" asked Gently. "I used to. I've seen too many horrible things to believe that any longer." 

"But you did once," Doyle stated. 

Gently gave a small smile. "Once, before..." He paused, and Doyle would have bet a hundred quid that Gently was thinking about his own murdered wife, who was mentioned in Gently's file. "Anyway, Pennywell and how we caught him. It was divine intervention," Gently said, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "When everything in the universe is in alignment." Bodie let out a snort. Gently looked at Bodie. "You don't believe in any of that, do you?" 

Bodie shook his head. "You're talking Doyle's language, sir. Not mine." He jabbed a thumb in Doyle's direction. "He's got enough spiritualism for the both of us." 

Gently glanced over at Doyle. Doyle shrugged. "I like to think there's something- more." 

"Yes, I know," Gently said. "I used to." He stopped for a moment. "Pennywell. He had taken his seventh victim, Abigail Varney. A passer-by saw something suspicious when he snatched her and called in an anonymous tip. There was never any verification of the caller nor was there any indication that Pennywell had taken Miss Varney where anybody could have seen the kidnapping." Gently sat back and clasped his hands together on his stomach. "He had taken the woman out of her own home, across her back garden that was bordered by a heavy wood. There was no way a passer-by could have seen either Pennywell or Miss Varney but the call did come in. It was logged with date and time, and I was alerted to the kidnapping within minutes.

"I was, by some miraculous coincidence, less than fifteen minutes from Miss Varney's cottage. I radioed my partner and we arrived simultaneously, a truly odd occurrence. He from the east and me from the north. I've often wondered what forces were at work that day." Gently chuckled softly. "Forgive an old man's blathering. I don't often have company these days."

"No family to speak of?" Doyle asked. "Sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

Gently smiled. "It's all right. Natural curiosity. I understand. To answer your enquiry, I have my former partner. John still drops in occasionally but he's busy working. He's Chief Inspector Bacchus these days," he said proudly. "Has his own family to attend to." 

Doyle stifled a sigh that threatened to erupt. He could see himself in the retired police officer. In his old age, alone and lonely, reliving his days as a copper. Maybe it was time he had a heart to heart with Bodie, before it was too late. Settle things between them for good.

"You were telling us how you nicked Pennywell," Bodie said encouragingly. 

"Ah, yes," Gently said, pursing his lips. "Where was I?" 

"You and your partner had arrived at Miss Varney's house," Doyle said. 

"Right. We checked the house quickly and found no-one. In the back garden, the gate was open and we could see marks in the dirt where someone had apparently been dragged off. We followed the tracks, of course. After about ten minutes came to a disused warehouse. The area was overgrown, abandoned. Old train tracks, buildings without windows. I thought I heard a scream but it was two tom cats fighting. The place was huge. With only two of us, it would have taken far too long to search by ourselves.

"I sent Martin-- my partner at the time, Cecil Martin-- to call for reinforcements and a tracking dog if he could find one available. In the meantime I started to search methodically one building at a time." Gently's eyes wandered towards the ceiling. Doyle reckoned he was visualising his steps from all those years ago. "After two warehouses, I knew my search was going much too slowly if I expected to save the young woman's life. I stood still in the centre of an overgrown carpark and closed my eyes, listening. It was a quiet night, the stars were out and even though the city lights cast a bright white glow, I had been able to see a few stars twinkling overhead. I said a prayer and something prompted me to walk to my right." 

Gently looked at both men in turn. "I saw a light in one of the warehouses. It bounced off a grimy window and I followed it. I slowly pushed open a rusted metal door, careful to stay out of sight. I was too late," he said sadly. "Pennywell had Miss Varney splayed on one of those bloody carpets. Her lower torso was a mess. Pennywell was hacking into her flesh with a twelve inch butcher knife, humming while he did it. She was dead, thank Christ. I can still remember her eyes. Wide and staring. Her mouth was open in a scream. Blood was everywhere, flying through the air and landing like rain drops on the carpeting on which Miss Varney lay." Gently shuddered, and Doyle could see him struggle to keep tears from his eyes. "It was one of the only times I wish I had a firearm. I would have shot him on the spot and not regretted it a moment. As it was, I yelled at him to drop the knife. He turned to me, covered in blood and licked his mouth. He dropped the knife; stood up. I picked up a piece of wood lying at my feet for a weapon. He smiled, stretched out his arms to surrender. Then the bastard fell to his knees and put his hands behind his head. He had no intention of running."

Now the tears did slip out; Gently hurriedly brushed them aside. "I cuffed him, told him that he was under arrest." He paused. "I made sure he knew he was under caution. I didn't want anything to interfere with his trial and conviction. His arrest was not questioned. In fact, he confessed to all the murders that night. Signed the confession and demanded the death penalty." Gently picked at a loose thread on the edge of the sofa cushion. "I went to the hanging. I did not have a single nightmare about watching that man die." 

"Christ," Bodie muttered. "Sorry." 

"No need," Gently said softly. "I swore a lot worse than that about that man. I understand." 

Doyle gathered his thoughts. "What about this copycat?" 

"Did you bring crime photos?" Gently asked. 

"Yes, sir." He pulled a folded manila envelope from his inner jacket pocket and held it out. 

Gently took it with a word of thanks. 

The men sat in silence while Gently examined each photograph in turn. He went through the lot three times before he tapped them into a neat pile and returned them to the envelope. 

"This is quite disturbing," Gently said after a long silence. 

"Yeah, we get that part," Bodie said drily. 

"Bodie," Doyle said, "he's trying to help." 

Bodie let out an annoyed grunt, springing to his feet. "We don't have time to listen to reminiscences about his days as a copper trailing the bad guy. We've got the real possibility of another killing tonight!" 

"He's right," Gently said evenly. "I'm an old man reliving my past. I apologise." 

"No need," Doyle said, studying Gently. Doyle's sense of the walls closing in on him deepened. This was he, in a few years, sitting at home after one too many injuries, possibly unable to walk or speak, or in a wheel chair. Alone. Alone... "Eh?" he blurted out when Bodie had thumped him on the top of the head. "Leave off." 

"Where were you, Doyle? We need to get on this now," Bodie snapped, his patience obviously gone. 

Doyle looked up. Bodie paced behind the sofa, hands buried in his pockets. His eyes flashed and his lips were pressed together. As much as Bodie liked to play the cool uninvolved professional agent, Doyle knew that his partner had a soft underbelly that he kept hidden, protected against any injury. "Sit down, Bodie. You're making me neck ache. Sir," Doyle said to Gently, "we'll take anything you can give us." 

Gently nodded slowly. "This suspect needs privacy, an empty place to commit his crime, the ability to snatch a woman as quietly as possible and kill her quickly." He rubbed at his eyes. "He has no finesse; he's in it for an adrenaline spike and once he's killed, he's depressed until the next one." 

"Wait," Bodie said, staring at Gently. "Just wait a mo. This bloke hasn't been hacking up women for the past ten or twenty years-" 

"That we know of," Doyle interrupted. 

Bodie rolled his eyes. "That we know of but we'd know. 'Course we'd know because that sort of killer would be known worldwide. If he were slaughtering women in the US or even in the bloody USSR we'd be hearing about it. It's far too dramatic to be kept quiet." 

"Maybe," Gently agreed. "It's true that news does get out from far off places like China and Moscow, and I doubt this bloke has moved to and from another country. I think he's a local lad; possibly has been incarcerated for the past few decades." 

Doyle stood up. "Yeah. I agree. He's got to have been in the nick and has been released. Terrific. Justice at work, eh?" 

"The only good thing is that Cowley should be able to get a list together of all the recent parolees," Bodie said. "We can run a computer check to see if any of them knew Pennywell, were cell mates, even guards or prison workers." 

"Apprentice," Doyle said roughly, his voice tight. 

"Eh?" Bodie raised an eyebrow. "Learned at his master's knee, maybe." 

"Yeah," Doyle said. 

"It's a possibility," Gently said. "Pennywell could have schooled somebody to follow in his footsteps." 

"That's sick," Doyle said, studying his trainers. 

"Family inheritance," Bodie said, sarcasm dripping from his words. "Blood is thicker than water."

"Some legacy." Doyle's stomach roiled. He breathed harshly through his nose to settle it. 

"Different phantoms," Gently said. 

"What?" Doyle asked. 

Gently looked seriously at Doyle. "Our fathers, grandfathers. Each affects a person differently, creating varying phantoms in our lives. Even identical twins have different ideas, thoughts, ideals after having grown up in the same household, with the same parents." 

Bodie made a soft, snorting sound. Doyle knew he was bored with philosophy. He tended to be an action man. Doyle liked contemplating life and how it worked. "We all have ghosts from our past with us," Doyle said. 

"Yes, exactly," Gently said. 

Doyle wasn't surprised when Bodie's patience came to an end. "Thanks, Chief Inspector," Bodie said, nodding to Gently while he caught Doyle's eye. He cocked his head towards the door, sending Doyle a clear message: Gently doesn't have anything more useful to offer and he was eager to wrap up the interview. 

"No problem. I'm happy to help any way I can," Gently said, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "It's good to be useful." 

Doyle wasn't ready to stop his questioning. He rubbed a finger across his upper lip. "Did Pennywell keep mementos?" 

Gently thought for a moment. "Souvenirs of his kills, yes. Each of his victims had pierced ears and each was missing the earring from her right ear." 

Doyle sat forward, his eyes locked on Gently's. "I didn't read that in the reports." 

"That's because Pennywell confessed. It never came out and I didn't put it in my reports. I was keeping it aside for evidence if we caught up with a suspect who denied involvement and we discovered the jewellery on a legal search." 

"So none of this made the papers," Doyle insisted, needing verification. 

"No," Gently said. "The earrings and the carpet were known only to the police. The earrings were our hold back from everybody except for those close to the investigation."

"You could keep this sort of intel out of reports?" Bodie asked. 

Gently shrugged. "It was another time, Mr Bodie. We worked by instinct and a lot of independent investigation. Reports were filed on a regular basis but unless the case related to some dignitary or person of import, the higher ups left us alone." Gently studied each man in turn. "There was no serial murderer squad back in that time. It wasn't until the '70s that it was acknowledged that this was a particular type of murderer, and since that time the term serial murderer was used. Spree killings or a rampage murderer was the more common vernacular. Still, very few murders were linked together unless there was an obvious connection. Without computers and investigative journalists, a murder in Bath wasn't likely to be compared to one in Liverpool." He waved his hand dismissively. "But that's neither here nor there. These days people study serial murderers and mental health people know a lot more, quite unfortunately, about the habits or rituals of these murders." 

"Unfortunately?" Bodie asked, looking interested now. 

Gently looked over his shoulder. "Unfortunate that we must have enough of these people to be able to study them. Unfortunate for their victims and the families and friends who have to live with the loss of their loved one. Unfortunate we have to look at photographs like this and speak about this poor woman in clinical terms." 

"Thank you," Doyle said. He had no doubt that Gently was a good copper. His first impression had been correct. 

Gently sat back and crossed his arms. "Back to the earrings. Quite honestly when I told my governor, I was informed that it was more likely the missing jewellery was merely accidentally ripped off and lost during the killing, and the carpeting was a handy device to work on. Nobody studied Pennywell until 1973 when Oscar Nash, in Oxford, wrote his post graduate psychiatry thesis about serial murderers."

"You do stay in touch, don't you," Bodie said. 

"It keeps the mind sharp," Gently said, tapping his forehead. 

Bodie stood behind Gently. "The earrings weren't found when Pennywell's place was turned over?" 

"No," Gently confirmed. "They were never found." 

Doyle held out a photo. "She's missing her right earring." 

Gently examined the snapshot. "Good work. I hope it helps with your investigation." 

Doyle put out his hand and Gently took it. "Sir." 

"Mr Doyle. It's been a pleasure. You remind me of myself when I was your age." Gently gave Doyle a warm smile. 

"I'll take that as a compliment, sir," Doyle said. 

Gently squeezed Doyle's hand. "It was meant to be. I was a decent copper. Good day." 

"Sir," Bodie said, giving a jaunty one fingered salute. 

Doyle met Gently's eyes and for a moment, he saw the courage and strength the man must have had in his younger days when being a copper in the Met was hard in the best of times. Graft, corruption, incompetence. Not every officer, of course, but the good ones were often trampled under foot. Gently had been one of the good ones. Of that Doyle had no doubt. 

On the way to the Capri, Doyle caught Bodie's gaze. "I liked him." 

Bodie paused before he admitted, "Me too. He reminded me of you around the eyes." He tossed Doyle the keys. "And if you're anywhere as good looking as he is when you're that old, I'll be a happy lad." 

"You're a cretin," Doyle said, without heat. "He was all right." 

"Hey!" Bodie said, putting his hand over his heart. "I'm wounded. That was a compliment, I'll have you know." 

"Right. Took it as one as well." Doyle smirked. "If you were anywhere as good looking now as I'll be in me old age, I'd be a much happier bloke. You've got the best end of this deal." He waved a hand between them, indicating their relationship, their partnership. 

Bodie laughed. "You've got the best 'end' that I know of, Ray old son, and I'm pleased to say that it's all mine." 

Doyle climbed into the Capri, a grin on his face. Leave it to Bodie to know how to make him smile in spite of the day they were having. No wonder he loved the mad bastard. Might as well stick his foot in it quickly. "Are you going to be around when I'm that old?" 

"I was planning on it. Why? Don't you want me to be?" Bodie asked flippantly. 

Doyle saw Bodie's hand clench in spite of his light tone. "Yeah, I do. We never made any plans, though." 

"Did you want something in writing?" 

Doyle looked over at his partner. He was looking straight ahead, and in profile, Bodie was gorgeous. Doyle wanted to kiss him desperately but this wasn't the time or the place. "Your word is good enough for me." 

Bodie turned his head slowly. He met Doyle's gaze squarely. "You have it." 

"You have mine." Doyle smiled, and Bodie's hand relaxed. "Shall we carry on?" 

"I'm with you, sunshine." 

"Good, because otherwise, I couldn't make it another day," Doyle said smartly. Bodie laughed again and Doyle drove off, not having to explain that he meant what he'd said: without Bodie by his side, he'd have given up years ago. Together, they could conquer anything. Apart was something Doyle didn't like thinking about in the least. So together was how it had to be, and now, that's the way they'd tackle anything life threw at them. 

\----------------------------

Bodie scraped the last of the spicy prawns from the takeaway container and popped it into his gob. He licked the end of his chopstick and burped. 

"Bodie," Doyle said, pretending shock. 

"Decent meal. Ta," Bodie said with a grin. He piled the empty containers and took them to the kitchen. After dropping them in the rubbish bin, he got two cans of beer from the fridge. "Cold one?" he said, tossing a can to Doyle before he could respond. 

Doyle put up a hand to protect his head from the incoming missile. "Hey! You're such a moron," he groused. The can plopped onto the sofa. "Thanks for nothing." With a cheeky grin, he cautiously popped the top. When the beer didn't spray the entire room, he opened it fully and took a long drink. 

Bodie sat beside him and leaned close. "Got a foam moustache." 

Doyle shrugged. "So?" 

"If you don't lick it off, I will." Bodie's eyes flashed, then turned smoky. 

"Go on, then," Doyle said, his voice low. He hoped his own eyes conveyed his need because he felt hot and flushed, ready to burn to a crisp. Bodie'd better hurry up. 

Bodie did. He grabbed Doyle's upper arms and brought their mouths together in a deep, messy kiss. Doyle clutched at Bodie's wrists and closed his eyes, enjoying Bodie's skill in kissing. Bodie could make him orgasm from his lips alone. Bloody hell, he'd done it before and tonight he was going to do it again. Doyle shivered, opening his mouth wider. Bodie cupped the back of Doyle's head and thrust his tongue in and out, clearly conveying what he wanted to do to the rest of Doyle's body. 

It was fine with Doyle. He pushed his own tongue against Bodie's and they danced, slick and wet. When Bodie finally released Doyle, they were both panting hard, eyes locked, grins plastered to their faces. 

"Christ," Doyle muttered, swiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. 

"Not quite," Bodie said irreverently, "but you can call me whatever you like." 

Doyle laughed, smacking Bodie's arm. "You'll burn in hell." 

"I know." 

"Come on, bedroom." 

Bodie leapt up, dragging Doyle with him. "You don't have to ask me twice, lover." 

They stumbled to the bedroom together, peeling off each other's and their own clothing. Naked by the time they made it to the bed, they tumbled onto the mattress. Hands touched and lips kissed. Tongues licked and fingers explored. They enjoyed each other's bodies. To Doyle, their lovemaking was sweeter because of the pledge they'd made to each other earlier today. He revelled in Bodie's hands and his tongue. He used his own skilfully, he thought, because Bodie whimpered and cursed and orgasmed over Doyle. Bodie returned the favour, much to Doyle's delight. It wasn't long before Doyle lay sated and drowsy in the circle of Bodie's arms. 

"We're a mess," Doyle said sleepily. 

"Yeah," Bodie answered, his voice low. He gave a contented sigh, kissed the top of Doyle's head and in moments, his breathing was soft and regular. 

Doyle smiled and he slept also. 

\-------------------------------------

"Doyle! What the hell!" 

Bodie's sharp words brought Doyle up short. He blinked dazedly, his eyes blurry. With a shaky hand, he rubbed at a spot on the back of his head that ached horribly. Looking around, he found himself back in his own bedroom. His own bedroom? What the...

"Eh?" he said dumbly. He swayed and the room tilted. His knees gave out. 

"You're dripping wet!" Bodie sat up and in a moment, he was at Doyle's side, steadying him. "Ray? You're fully dressed and soaked through. It's bloody 5 am, dark outside. What the hell is going on?"

Doyle slowly shook his head, looking down at himself. His running togs were indeed wet. His trainers made a squishing noise as he wiggled his toes. Looking down made him dizzy and if not for Bodie's firm grasp, he would have fallen over. With shaky fingers he plucked at a dark spot on the zip of his jacket. He looked at the clot of mud he'd wiped from the metal track. Strange... "Oh." He rubbed his head with the muddy finger, heedless of the dirt he spread on his scalp. "Hurts." The throbbing spot was swollen and painful. 

Bodie sat Doyle down on the edge of the bed. He turned on the bedside lamp and lifted Doyle's chin. "What happened, mate?" he asked again. Bodie leaned down to stare into Doyle's eyes. "Your eyes are unfocused and you're acting like you've been hit on the head." 

"Yeah. Here." Doyle gingerly touched the spot that ached. The large lump hurt like the blazes when he prodded it. "Ow." 

Bodie slapped Doyle's hand away. He parted Doyle's hair, his fingers gently probing. "What happened? I thought you were sleeping!" 

"I- I remember waking up and couldn't fall back to sleep. I thought I'd go for a jog-" 

"It's five in the bloody morning?" 

"Helps me sleep." 

"How long ago did you leave? It must be pouring buckets for you to be this drenched." 

Doyle shrugged, glancing at the clock. Five? Wait. He'd gone out about three. Hadn't he? Suddenly tired, as well as confused and cold, he shivered. 

"Let's get you out of those wet clothes." Bodie lifted Doyle's chin. "Or are you going to pass out on me?" 

Doyle let out a disgusted grunt. "Leave off. I'm fine. Can get meself undressed," he grumbled. "Been doing it for a few years now." 

"Yeah, right. Here, strip and put on these." Bodie got Doyle's heaviest towelling robe on the bed along with a pair of heavy socks. "I'll go and put the kettle on." 

"Ta. Could use a cuppa." Doyle scrubbed at his face. 

"Then move it. Tea will warm you up. Sitting there, getting the mattress wet isn't helping." 

"Tablets too, please. My head is splitting." 

Bodie hurried off. Doyle stripped slowly, trembling with fatigue. He should have taken Bodie's offer to help but then Bodie would have whined about his awful habits. Who in their right mind went out at 3 am to jog, especially on a rainy night. As Doyle took off trainers, socks, t-shirt, tracksuit bottoms and underpants, he thought about why he was wet. Wait. It hadn't been raining when he went out, had it? He put on the heavy socks and sighed gratefully at the warmth encircling his toes. At the window Doyle parted the curtains and looked out. In the light from the street lamp, he could see that the pavement and tarmac were dry. 

Why was he wet then? Oh right! He had been shoved, bashed from behind. He remembered now. He'd been jogging along, alone or so he thought. Suddenly he'd been whacked over his head and pushed sideways. He remembered falling into the canal, and the freezing water closed over him. How had he got out of the water? The phone rang, startling him from his musings. His breathing gave a hitch and his heart thudded. 

"Get a grip, mate," he muttered to himself. He heard Bodie answer the phone and his deep voice was a background sound while Doyle gathered up the wet clothing. He tossed them onto the bathroom lino, snatched up a dry towel to blot at his head and went out to the kitchen. 

"Who was that or should I guess?" Doyle asked from under the towel. 

"Cowley," Bodie answered. 

"What'd he want?" Doyle wrapped the damp towel around his neck and waited but Bodie didn't respond. "Bodie?" 

"Eh?" Bodie shrugged. "Oh, there's been another body." 

"Jesus. When and where?" 

" _When_ is she was found about thirty minutes ago.  >Where is two roads over from here." 

"My own neighbourhood? That's not right," Doyle said. He hated hearing that there was another victim but he wasn't surprised. "This is a quiet part of the city. Are we called in?" 

"Yeah. Cowley said as soon as we can. The lab boys are doing their thing first." 

Doyle looked at Bodie quizzically. Bodie was distracted and getting the necessary information about the phone call out of him was irritating him. This was important yet Bodie wasn't showing the least bit of interest. Doyle sat down, his eyes trained on Bodie as he prepared the tea. Bodie kept tossing Doyle sideways glances before looking away quickly. 

Annoyed, Doyle demanded, "Bodie, what the hell are you playing at?" Bodie's intense scrutiny made him uncomfortable and angry. What was Bodie thinking? He wanted to demand answers but something held him back. A chill raced down his neck. For a moment, he had the oddest sense of guilt; like he'd done something wrong. Irritated, he pushed away the feeling and after Bodie had poured the tea, Doyle dumped sugar and milk into the mug. He blew on the hot liquid, took a cautious sip before he drank deeply. The tea made him feel much better. Pouring a second cup, he slurped this cupful slowly, savouring the taste. It was only after he'd finished half the second cup that he looked up and saw his partner staring at him. 

"What? Have I grown two heads?" Doyle snarled. 

"What? Oh, sorry, Ray. I was thinking." 

"There's an earth shattering announcement," Doyle muttered. 

"Pillock," Bodie snapped back. "I was wondering if you saw anything while you were out exercising your limbs." 

"I didn't see a murder but something weird did happen." Doyle took another reviving gulp of his tea. 

"Well, go on then. Don't make me have to pull each word from your gullet." 

"Somebody knocked me on the head and pushed me into the canal," Doyle relayed matter of factly. 

"You're joking," Bodie said, pausing with his cup half way to his mouth.

"No. You inspected the sore spot so that proves I was bashed on the noggin. And..." Doyle picked up the aspirin tablets sitting on the table. He swallowed them along with more tea. 

"Christ, Doyle. And what?" Bodie said, his exasperation showing. 

"I think somebody pulled me out of the water. I don't remember climbing out myself but I think I remember being dragged to the footpath." Doyle sighed again, scrubbing at his eyes. "It's all a blur." 

"You probably should see the doctor. You've been concussed." 

"Have not. It's this headache. Once it's gone I'll be able to think clearly," Doyle said. "Honest, mate. I'd tell you if I was having double vision or anything. I'm feeling all right, except for the headache." 

Bodie hunched down and peered up into Doyle's face. "You'll let me know if you decide to spew up?"

"Why, so you can bundle me off to A&E?" 

"No, berk. So I can get out of the way. Got new slippers on and I don't want- Ow!" Bodie rubbed his arm. 

"Don't know why I put up with you," Doyle said, flexing his hand. Bodie's arm was hard muscle. "I could fall over dead and you'd push my lifeless body aside to get to the nearest Swiss roll." 

"I'm wounded," Bodie said pathetically. "After I've pledged my life to you, this is the thanks I get." 

"Nobody else would have you. I was your last chance." 

"And a good last chance you are." Bodie studied Doyle for a long moment. "Drink up and hit the shower. You smell like dirty canal." He drained the last of the tea into his own cup. "I'll toss together some sandwiches for later while you use the bathroom. But hurry up. I can't spend the day smelling you on my skin." 

Doyle stood up. He put a hand on Bodie's shoulder. "I do like you, even if you're the worse nursemaid in history." 

Bodie laughed. "You should see me in my nurse's uniform." 

Doyle put his hand over his heart. "One of my favourite dreams, you in black stockings."

"I've got the legs for 'em." 

Doyle rolled his eyes. 

\---------------------------

Bodie drove; Doyle kept alert in case he saw anything suspicious although any decent criminal would be long gone by now. 

When the radio sounded, Doyle answered. "4.5." 

_"Cowley here. My office, immediately."_

"But sir, we're almost at the murder scene-" 

_"Do you not understand the concept of immediately?"_ Even over the radio, Doyle could hear the cold fury in his controller's tone. 

Cowley clicked off, leaving Doyle staring at the mic in his hand. "That was pleasant." 

Bodie made a left turn at the next junction and headed towards HQ. "What did we do now? He sounded none too pleased." 

"Is he ever?" Doyle said, snapping the mic back into its holder. 

"He likes me." Bodie cast Doyle a sarky grin. "Can't say that about you and Father." 

"Don't you start with the arse kissing." 

"Kiss your arse any time." 

"You kiss Cowley's whenever we're hauled on the carpet." 

"Raymond! I'm faithful. I've never put these lips on another man's arse since we pledged our undying love to each other." 

Doyle eyed Bodie thoughtfully. 

"What?" Bodie said. 

"Another man's arse... Maybe. How about a woman's?" 

"No." 

"A sheep?" 

"Doyle! Ewww. Not even I would sink that low," Bodie said, looking affronted. He pouted. 

Doyle laughed, tapping Bodie's lower lip. "Put it away before an aeroplane lands on it, mate. I'm teasing." 

"I know but it's making you laugh so it's fun." 

"I'm sorry, mate," Doyle sighed. "This investigation is making me sick. I hate people and what they do to each other." 

"Yeah." 

Doyle put a hand on Bodie's shoulder and they rode the rest of the way in a warm silence. With Bodie, Doyle could be himself, relax even when things were going pear shaped, and know that Bodie had his back. He often thanked a God he wasn't sure he believed in for sending him his partner. Bodie was loyal, funny, and caring, traits not many people saw in his lover. Bodie's outward demeanour was one of a hard living, hard loving, hard drinking bloke who would sell his gran for a quid. Doyle knew the truth, and he'd go to his grave keeping Bodie's secrets. 

"Doyle?" 

"Eh? Oh. Sorry. My mind's wandering." Doyle opened the door and climbed out. He looked over the roof at Bodie. "What do you think's going on?" 

Bodie shrugged. Doyle knew he wasn't one to spend needless energy speculating on 'what could'. He kept Doyle grounded. And today, Doyle felt the need to stay close to his partner. He followed Bodie across the car park and into CI5 HQ. Smithers was guarding the door. When he saw them enter, his eyes widened. 

"Mr Cowley says to meet him on Level B. What happened to you, 4.5?" 

"Nothing," Doyle snapped. He'd forgotten about being beaten up. Apparently, something in the way he looked or was carrying himself was giving him away. Wonderful. Cowley would be sure to notice. 

Bodie glanced at Doyle questioningly. Doyle grunted. Bodie gave a low whistle. Going to that level meant business. What kind Doyle hadn't a clue. Level B was occupied with holding cells as well as a not often used secure room that was video and sound proof. If they weren't meant for a holding cell, then they were meant for the secure room. 

As if mind reading, Smithers said, "Security room. You blokes aren't going to be incarcerated. Yet." He grinned cheekily. 

"Ta, Smithy," Bodie said, 

"Best hurry," Smithers said, smirking. "I expect you'll both be set to rights by himself in short order." 

"Marvellous," Doyle muttered, heading towards the lift. He hit the button to the lower level. Leaning against the back wall, Bodie stood before him and put his hands on Doyle's hips. 

"Let's run off. Live on a beach somewhere. Collect shells to sell to tourists," Bodie said, his eyes dancing. 

"All right," Doyle said seriously, holding Bodie's gaze. 

"You're scared." Bodie's tone was quiet, quizzical. 

"Don't know. Yeah. No. Maybe." 

Doyle closed his eyes. He opened them when the lift came to a halt and the doors opened. Bodie led the way to a thick steel door. He lifted a telephone receiver and identified himself. The door buzzed; Doyle pulled it open. It closed behind him with a finality that he would expect from a prison cell door. The idea made him shudder and he got a grip on himself. He walked with Bodie down a dismal flight of stairs, then along a corridor lit with a flickering light bulb hung from strands of twisted black wire. 

A block of light tumbled out into the corridor. Their destination. Bodie went into the room first. Doyle looked at his controller. Cowley sat at a plain wooden desk. There were two telephones, one red and one black, along with a special cradle to place a phone receiver. The set up ensured that the phone line was secure. There was a pitcher of water, a half empty bottle of whisky, glasses, pens, paper, a half dozen manila file folders. Cowley's spectacles were on top of the files. 

Cowley picked up the glasses and waved the men into the chairs in front of the desk. The man wore a rumpled grey suit, a white shirt and a blue tie. His face looked haggard and his eyes red rimmed, as if he hadn't slept. 

He probably hadn't, Doyle realised. Not that Doyle had got much sleep the past two nights. Not with images of dead women and blood and destruction to fill his dreams. He slumped into one of the hard wooden chairs and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. 

Bodie sat beside him, back stiff, hands resting on his knees. He looked as if he was expecting bad news. The hairs on the back of Doyle's neck rose; he sat up straight. Something was wrong. The air crackled with electricity and Cowley looked pained. When Doyle met his controller's eyes, what he saw there chilled him to the bone: he saw sympathy. 

"Why are you bruised, 4.5?" Cowley asked, eyeing Doyle intently. 

"Ran into a door," Doyle said unkindly. 

"Excuse me?" Cowley said, his tone commanding. "I asked you a question, Doyle, and I expect an honest answer." 

"I- I went for a jog and got run over by a mad cyclist on the path. I'm fine," Doyle said hastily before Cowley could ask any more questions. Not that Cowley wouldn't forge on if he wanted. Thankfully he seemed satisfied with Doyle's explanation. Hurriedly, Doyle asked, "What is it, sir?" His tone was terse but he didn't care. Whatever it was that had brought them into this room wasn't good. 

"I have news. It's of a personal nature to you, 4.5, and I'm going to ask you firstly if you'd like Bodie to leave." 

Doyle stared at Cowley. Ask Bodie to... Christ, what the hell was it? Why did Cowley feel the need to give Doyle that particular choice? His brain raced and his back stiffened. It was personal. It affected the case they were working on. He was in trouble. 

"No-" Doyle's voice broke. He cleared his throat. "No, sir." He cast a sidelong glance at Bodie. His partner was sitting so still that Doyle wondered if he were breathing. He'd apparently tasted the friction, the tension in the air, same as Doyle. Doyle was aware that Bodie was frantically thinking, trying to decide what was going on. "Bodie's my partner. There's nothing... There's nothing that you could say that he can't hear." 

Cowley studied Doyle intently. He looked at Bodie before he slowly nodded. "All right. I'm not one to prevaricate so I'll lay out the information as I know it. I'm sorry to have to tell you this." At Doyle's nod, he said, "This case is extremely important. It is imperative that all avenues of investigation are scrupulously followed. I had one of my most trusted operatives, who shall remain anonymous to the both of you, conduct a probing check of Pennywell's background." 

Cowley paused and sipped from a water glass. If the contents hadn't been clear instead of amber, Doyle would have thought that Cowley needed strong fortification to continue. A cold sweat trickled down Doyle's neck and slid under the collar of his shirt. He pursed his lips, blowing quietly and waited, knowing that Cowley would speak in his own good time. 

"Let me say this first and you," Cowley looked directly at Doyle, "may ask questions once I'm finished. This is difficult for me to say. The investigation into Pennywell's life uncovered some unsettling information. In 1945, Pennywell was eighteen years old. He was seen in the company of a thirteen year old girl. The girl became pregnant. She told her parents that Pennywell forced himself on her. Gave her alcohol and took advantage of her. Unfortunately the girl avoided a physician until several months after the incident. No one was able to substantiate that she was raped." Cowley sipped the water. "He was not charged and the girl was whisked out of her village. She was pregnant and had a child, a boy." Looking pained, like his guts were twisting, Cowley said softly, "She felt it best to turn the care of the child over to what she considered adequate parents. She wished to save the child from being called a bastard, from any possible mistreatment by anyone. That boy was you, Doyle."

Doyle stood quickly, knocking over his chair. His throat tightened. His heart thudded against his ribs. He stared at Cowley. "But I'm not adopted," he blurted out. _Stupid thing to say._ He'd just been told that a spree killer, a madman and a rapist, was his fa- parent, sperm source, and he was worried about being adopted and not being told? "Sir?" he said, barely able to speak. "How?"

"Your Aunt Jane is not your aunt, 4.5. She is your mother, and sister to the woman whom you knew as your mother." 

A sharp pain flared in Doyle's chest. He pressed the heel of his hand over it. His eyes burned. "What?" He tried to think but his brain refused to work. From his fog, Doyle felt Bodie's hand clamp onto his wrist and he unconsciously covered it with his own. "What?" he repeated. His rational mind understood the words Cowley was speaking, and the content, but he couldn't comprehend the words. He wasn't adopted. He wasn't! His mum would have told him. His dad would have told him. Had his dad not known? Why hadn't his mother told him? 

Wouldn't she have?

Doyle gave an involuntary moan; to his own ears, it was full of pain. He couldn’t speak, he could barely breathe. He wanted to die. Bodie's hand tightened. He tugged Doyle back into his chair. 

Bodie cleared his throat. "How did you find this out, sir?" 

Grateful, Doyle glanced at Bodie. Bodie looked back, nodding. His eyes conveyed his concern, his love. 

"My source went to Pennywell's birth place, Sheffield. He went door to door in the neighbourhood and even after all these years, people remembered. They remembered Pennywell and the girl, what had apparently happened and what her claims were. The police were called, but the girl was not able to provide proof that she had been raped. Because the girl had been seeing another boy and they'd been seen to have been kissing, Pennywell was able to convince the police that Jane had flaunted herself and invited his attentions. It was only after they had had consensual relations and found herself in the family way that she decided to protest." Cowley paused. "My man got the police records but they were of little help. Only the sketchiest of reports was filed." 

"The police swept the rape under the rug," Bodie said bitingly. "I don't know which is worse: lazy or bent coppers or the fact that women rarely reported rape because they were thought to have invited it." 

Cowley sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Aye. It wasn't unusual for rape victims to be thought of as trollops, not only by strangers and busybodies, but sometimes, sadly, friends and family. Many people believed these poor wee souls flaunted themselves for the attentions of men and then cried rape afterwards when they found themselves in trouble. I don't believe for a moment that Jane Marlow was responsible for what happened to her. She was the victim." 

"Aunt Jane," Doyle whispered. "She'll tell me the truth. Mum's gone and so is Dad-" His voice broke and a strange sound, part sob, part choking noise, erupted. He buried his face in his hands, ordering himself to not cry, not in front of Bodie and Cowley. 

"Laddie, there's probably going to be more unpleasantness before this case is concluded," Cowley said kindly. 

Doyle hated the sympathy oozing from his controller. He wanted to scream, shout, rip. He wanted to hurt somebody, see blood spill, feel the pain in his knuckles when bone met flesh. He hadn't realised how tightly he'd clenched his fists until Bodie covered one with his hand. 

"Ray," Bodie said. 

The way Bodie said his name made Doyle''s anger spike. "Don't." Doyle snapped out the word, ready to rip into Bodie without provocation. 

"It's not my fault," Bodie snapped back. "Nor Cowley's. Nobody's fault. Not even yours." 

Doyle felt himself flush, heat rising up his face. "Screw you." 

Before either man could say another word, Cowley stood up. "Bodie," he said, command in his tone, "pour us all a dram." Bodie looked as if he were going to refuse. "Please." Icy resolve in that single word. 

Doyle took in a shaky breath and while Bodie stood up to pour the whisky, he slowly exhaled. His nails dug into his palms and it took a concentrated physical effort to loosen his hands. Cowley passed one of the glasses that Bodie had put on the desk over to Doyle. He held it up until Doyle took it from him. Bloody Cowley. Always prepared. _Pour drink in case of emergency,_ Doyle thought coldly. _My fath- the man who put his sperm into my mother- is a serial murderer and a child abuser and a rapist. Happy Birthday, Merry Christmas and fucking Valentine's Day to me._

Doyle drank the whisky in one go. The burn felt good going down. The heat that hit his stomach spread warmth through him. He held out his glass for more. Bodie looked at him, then Cowley. Cowley nodded. Bodie poured. Doyle drank. 

"What else?" Doyle demanded. "Stop looking at Bodie and spill it. Go on, say it all." 

Bodie sat down with a long-suffering sigh. After looking heavenward, he sipped his drink. 

Cowley drank a mouthful. "From what we can garner, you were not adopted. I've taken the liberty of speaking with your aunt, Miss Marlow, personally earlier today." 

"You went to Derby?" Doyle demanded. "You spoke to her without my permission?" 

"Aye, I did. I don't need your permission to conduct an investigation," Cowley said firmly. "Miss Marlow wasn't surprised to hear from me. I had the distinct feeling that she had expected such a visit for many years now." Cowley finished his whisky. "I feel I have garnered the crux of the matter and I have her permission to tell you her tale." At Doyle's sharp wave of a hand, Cowley said, "It seems that your mother and father- the people who raised you as their own... Don't bother with what you're going to say. The good people who took you for their son were indeed your parents. So if you care to stop scowling at me I can further explain that your parents had a private agreement with Miss Marlow. It was kept in the family since, as you well know, she is your mother's younger sister. From what I understand, your parents and aunt were the only family members left alive after the war." 

Doyle closed his eyes. This was too much. His mother was his aunt. His aunt was his mother. His father was his uncle. Christ, what a sodding mess. Doyle opened his eyes. Cowley was looking pointedly at him. 

"Do you wish to hear the rest of this?" Cowley asked, "Or would you rather have some hysterics before I continue." 

"That's not fair!" Doyle shouted. "I'm not allowed to be surprised or shocked or... whatever? I'm supposed to be a block of ice?" Doyle ran his hand through his hair. "Can I have a bloody minute to think?"

"Of course." Cowley looked embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Doyle. If it helps, remember that these people loved you and cared for you. All of them. They rearranged everything privately. I'm told they all agreed to move from Sheffield to Derby while Miss Marlow went 'away', as young ladies often did, to boarding school. Your parents relocated and when you arrived, she went to the new home in Derby. You were not unwanted, Doyle."

Doyle let out a derisive snort. "Yeah. Marvellous." 

Cowley sighed softly. 

"Finish it," Doyle demanded. 

After a moment's pause, Cowley said, "In the meantime, your mother took on the appearance of pregnancy and once they had the news from Miss Marlow that the child was born, they moved to their new town. She brought you home. Your mother discarded her maternity clothing and you were introduced by your parents as their son. As you know, your aunt stayed in residence with your parents, helping to raise you." 

"How do you know all of this and I don't?" Doyle demanded. "It's my sodding life and I don't know what's going on. I don't know who I am!" He was on his feet again, leaning on Cowley's desk. He was heated, felt feverish. The whisky in his gut churned unpleasantly. 

Bodie got to his feet and leaned into Doyle's face. "You're who you were yesterday and last night and this morning," Bodie said firmly. "You're Ray Doyle, Agent 4.5. My partner, my friend. A bloody good CI5 agent, even if you are at times a rat tempered bastard. That's who you are. This information doesn't change you." Bodie grabbed Doyle's arm. "Do you hear me?" he demanded. "Look at me." 

Doyle closed his eyes for a moment and worried his lower lip with his teeth. After a few seconds, he opened his eyes and looked at Bodie. Bodie held his gaze steadily, strength never wavering. It made Doyle emotional to see Bodie's faith in him. He blinked rapidly, nodding. "Ta," he whispered. "I appreciate your confidence in me but it does change things. I'm not who I thought I was." 

Cowley harrumphed. "Enough of this. You're my man and you'll do the same job you did in the past: follow my orders and conduct yourself as a valued member of this organisation. Now pay attention." Cowley paused until Doyle met his eyes. "This information has no bearing on this investigation. No one knows this. There are dead women and a killer to be caught. Pennywell is dead and whoever is doing this isn't he. Doyle, I'm asking you to put aside your personal dilemma for now and once this is behind us, I'll be able to give you some time off to understand what happened. For now, however, I need you with your head in the game. Am I clear on this?" Cowley asked firmly. "May I rely on you?"

Doyle battled with himself. On one hand, he wanted to hare off to Derby immediately to speak to his... mother. On the other hand, Cowley was looking at him expectantly. Cowley said he needed him. Decision made, Doyle nodded slowly. "Yes, sir. You may rely on me." 

"Good lad." 

"You're not taking me off the case because of personal involvement?" Doyle asked. 

"Were you not listening when only a moment ago I said I needed you and Bodie to bring this killer to justice? I thought you had a better understanding of the spoken word than that, 4.5." Cowley eyed Doyle thoughtfully. "So until or unless I have need to do so, or unless you request to be removed, this information stays in this room and you may carry on as before." 

"Yes, sir," Doyle said gratefully. "Thank you."

"Dismissed. Get to work. You've a crime scene to visit. I want results." Cowley returned to his files. 

Doyle glanced at Bodie. His partner's expression spoke volumes. He wanted out of there, and he wanted a few minutes alone with Doyle so they could regroup, so that Bodie could reassure him that he loved him. That this changed nothing. In reality, what Doyle had learned from Cowley changed everything. Doyle wasn't the man Bodie had signed on with. He wouldn't hold Bodie to his pledge of fidelity and devotion. In spite of the ice that had gripped Doyle's heart, their wordless communication made Doyle warm inside, and a corner of the frozen part that Cowley's news had formed melted slightly. It wouldn't be enough in the end, but for now it was welcomed. Doyle would solve this crime and then he would set Bodie free from being tied to damaged goods. For now, however, they stood up together, walked out of the room and headed to the car park. 

"Tea?" Bodie asked. 

"I'd murder- Shit." Doyle scrubbed his eyes. 

"No worries, mate. It's just slang. I could murder a cuppa myself." 

"Do you have to be so understanding?" Doyle snarled. 

"I could be a nutter or a prick or something else unpleasant. More like you." Doyle reached out to punch him but he danced out of the way. "However," Bodie continued, not missing a beat, "I'd rather not. I haven't had my tea yet." He cocked an eyebrow. 

Doyle would have laughed if he didn't feel so bloody awful. He did give Bodie a crooked smile. "I don't want to go anywhere with people. Not right now." 

"My flat?" 

"It's closest. Got anything in?" 

"Are you hungry?" 

Doyle shrugged. "Nah. But you probably are." 

Bodie grinned. He moved closer. Doyle knew he was aching to wrap him up in his arms. Doyle didn't want coddling at the moment, maybe later. Right now he wanted to think about what Cowley had told him. He wanted to kill someone, but Pennywell was already dead. Damn it. 

"Did you want to go and see her?" 

"I suppose I must." Doyle unlocked the Capri's door. "But I need to think first. Cowley won't allow time off now anyway. After the case is finished, it's the first thing I'm going to do. I should call though. Tonight. I need to talk to her since she knows I know." 

"You let me know when you're finished thinking and I'll go along." Bodie climbed into the passenger seat after Doyle unlocked his door. 

"I hate it when you're this agreeable," Doyle muttered, turning over the engine. 

"I'm a prince, aren't I?" Bodie gave a wide grin, baring his teeth. 

Doyle sighed theatrically, rolling his eyes. "And modest too." He shook his head. 

Bodie laughed. It was a dirty sound that made Doyle snort with amusement. 

"Stop. This isn't a laughing matter," Doyle protested. 

When Doyle glanced over at him, Bodie put his hand over his heart. "I agree with you that I'm modest. Tall, dark and engagingly modest. Yours truly." He bowed as far as he could in his seat. 

"Shut it now, Bodie, or you'll be sleeping on the sofa." 

"And you'll be joining me on it, because there is no way you're sleeping alone, not after the horrid morning you've had. Let's get to that crime scene and get to those files. Later on, you will need to be shagged and thoroughly so you can sleep. But until then, drive on and be quick about it." 

"Yes, sir." Doyle stomped on the accelerator. The tyres squealed and the Capri shot forward. 

Bodie let out another laugh, and held on. 

 

\----------------------------

"This is too close to my flat," Doyle said as he drove to the crime scene. He looked around. The neighbourhood looked so bloody normal. Houses in a tight row. Cars parked along the kerb. Women pushing prams. Kids playing with a football. A girl jumping rope. Suburbia at its finest. The thought of a murder around here made Doyle sick at heart. Not that murder was better elsewhere, but still... "Two roads over. From my own place. Marvellous." Doyle drove for another quarter of a mile and turned down a road littered with broken tarmac and rubbish. "I knew about these disused buildings. Never been back here though. Must be dangerous for kids to play about them." He looked around, musing aloud. "Probably used by druggies. Never dreamed there'd be a murder in one of them." 

"It happens in the worst of places, and the best," Bodie said philosophically. "In the papers a few weeks ago there was one at Claridge's. Poshest digs in London they say. Was a lovers' spat gone bad." 

"Yeah, sure. Doesn't make it right." Doyle parked behind a panda car, set the brake and got out. 

"Come on. Let's get this over with." Bodie led the way past a gathering of vehicles: a hearse, a black transit van and two other saloon cars. 

Doyle had never been to this building in his travels so he studied it closely. It was built of brick, three stories high. The windows were broken in such a manner that they created two eyes and a crooked mouth that appeared to grin malevolently at him. He suppressed a shiver and pushed away the idea that the building was inviting him to enter at his peril. He didn't like the way the trees had crowded the structure. Branches scratched against the window glass that was still intact. The sound made him hunch his shoulders deeper into his jacket. He hoped Bodie hadn't seen anything on his face that betrayed his trepidation. 

"You all right?" Bodie asked. 

No such luck. The man saw everything. Doyle shrugged. "Yeah. Fabulous. Let's get this done." 

"Sure." He eyed Doyle for another moment. Doyle was sure he was going to say something but he finally turned away and headed into the dim interior of the disused building. 

"Phillips," Doyle said to the forensics man when he approached. 

Phillips pushed the hair that flopped over his forehead away from his face and shoved his glasses up on his nose. Nothing new there. Short tempered, Doyle looked away before he said something rude. _Have you considered cutting that mop? I'm sure they sell specs that fit._ His assistant, Porter, was close behind him, carrying the ever present clip board. 

"Doyle. Bodie," Phillips said.

"Gentlemen," Porter said. When both men eyed him, he stuttered, "B-bodie, sir. Doyle, s-sir." 

"Why are you here anyway, Phillips?" Bodie asked. "Got demoted from the bomb squad?" 

"I'm part of the forensics laboratory, Bodie. I investigate all manner of cases," Phillips said defensively. "Is that a problem for you?" 

"No, no problem. Being nosy, that's all," Bodie said, turning away. 

"Right bastard, isn't he?" Phillips said to Doyle conspiratorially. 

"No," Doyle said. "Bodie's all right. I'd keep my mouth shut if I were you." 

Phillips pushed his glasses up and shoved his hair back. The glasses slid down and the hair fell forward. Doyle hid a grimace of distaste, realising he wasn't being fair but not caring. Phillips did a good job or Cowley'd have sacked him long ago. 

"You don't scare me," Phillips said smartly. 

Doyle narrowed his eyes and lifted his chin. "You have a problem with Bodie or me?" he demanded. 

Phillips took a step back. "No, no problem." 

Porter sniggered, Phillips shot him a look that promised retribution. 

Doyle studied him, wondering what Phillips was playing at. One minute he was fawning, the next he was trying to impress them. It was all making Doyle's head ache. He didn't like sounding impatient but he couldn't help himself. "Then why don't you give us your findings so we can be on our way." 

"Right. Okay." Phillips consulted his clipboard. "Female, appears to be in her early twenties, killed in the same manner as the other two women this week. No other findings at the moment. Once the lab boys study the body, I'll have more." 

"Butchered like the others, you mean," Doyle said sharply. He turned away, effectively dismissing Phillips. The man tended to annoy Doyle merely with his presence. He wasn't happy with himself that he felt that way and since he couldn't explain why, he ordered himself not to dwell on it. It was with a force of will that he began to walk around the crime scene, ignoring Phillips even though the man chattered on, providing details of what Doyle could clearly see. Between his unnecessary observations, he tossed orders at Porter for this and to do that. 

Doyle concentrated, blocking out Phillips and the other people swarming around. The woman was a sad thing, cut up the same way the other victims had been. 

"No personal effects," Bodie said, walking over to Doyle. 

"There was that-" Porter began. 

Phillips turned on him. "Didn't I give you something to do, Porter?"

Porter looked stricken. "Yes, sir." 

"The evidence won't bag itself," Phillips snapped. 

"Go easy on him," Doyle said. "He's learning the ropes." Phillips was bothering him today and he couldn't hold his temper in a second longer. He needed to get out of here as quickly as possible. Hell, everything was bothering him today. 

Phillips waved Porter off and returned to his pen and paper. 

"I hate that this happened," Doyle said unnecessarily. He knew Bodie felt the same way but it did feel better saying the words out loud. 

"Yeah," Bodie said simply. 

"Nobody deserves this." Doyle stared at the body spread out, unsurprisingly, on the Oriental style carpeting. He leaned over, careful not to step on any evidence and craned his neck. "Gone." 

"Eh?" Bodie joined him, staring down. "Earring's missing." 

"Diamond again. Same as before." 

"Think it means something?" 

Doyle shrugged. "Could be how he chooses? Watches women; sees what they wear, what they like, and if he likes it..." 

"Could be. It's as good a reason as any other, I suppose." Bodie sighed and looked away. After a moment he turned back to Doyle. "Anything else we need here?" 

"No. Nothing. Until we get the preliminary reports and then we can see if there's anything else." 

"Cowley might have run the victims' backgrounds by now. Maybe they knew each other. Drank at the same pubs, something." 

"Yeah, maybe." Doyle shoved his hands into his pockets and walked away from the body. After a dozen steps, he looked back, studying the area as a whole. 

Bodie made one last circuit of the body before he came over to Doyle. "See anything?" 

"Nah. Just thinking. What a depressing place." Doyle looked up and around. 

From the inside, the warehouse looked worse than from the outside. It had the usual broken windows and rotting rafters. Portions of the roof had fallen in and the debris lay in piles around the floor of the space. It was dusty and dirty and to think it was the last place this poor woman saw was appalling. People should die at home, at well past ninety, in their own beds, surrounded by friends and family. Doyle snorted softly at his own romantic idealism. 

"What?" Bodie asked. 

"Nothing. Being fanciful, that's all." Doyle met Bodie's gaze. "Let's get out of here." 

"I'm with you on that, mate." 

"4.5!" called Phillips, waving his hand. 

Doyle pretended not to have heard the man's call. He started towards the door. 

Phillips raised his voice louder. "Doyle!" 

"Bloody hell," Doyle muttered. 

"What?" Bodie said, a smirk on his face. "You don't enjoy the attentions of Mister Phillips?" 

"What are you playing at?" 

"He's got a crush, you know." 

"Go to hell, Bodie." 

"Got a room already booked." 

"Doyle, hang on!" Phillips ran over, waving a small plastic evidence bag. "One of the lads found something." He slid to a halt before Doyle and thrust the bag into his hand. 

Doyle lifted the bag up and inspected the small item inside. "It's a Swiss army knife." 

"Yes," Phillips said. 

"Insightful," Bodie offered. 

Annoyed, Doyle stared at him. 

"Look," Phillips took the bag and stretched the plastic over the knife. "There's something scratched into the handle. Looks like initials." 

Doyle snatched the bag back. He moved into the best light and inspected the marking on the red celluloid. "Looks like... R..." He squinted. 

Bodie pulled the bag out of Doyle's hand. He said, "R... T... D. R.T.D." One of Bodie's eyebrows rose. "Hey, those are your initials, Doyle. What? You killed this gal?" Bodie gave a nasty grin, his forehead wrinkling. 

"Stuff it," Doyle snarled. He turned away and stomped off. Bloody Bodie. Of all the bollocks, to accuse him of something this heinous. It was nothing to joke about. 

"Come on, Ray. Don't be such a girl." 

Doyle didn't stop until he got to the car. "This is not a laughing matter." 

"Those were your initials." 

"A lot of people have those initials. Besides, I've got-" Doyle put his hand into his trouser pocket. His fingers met emptiness. 

"What have you got? I'm guessing your knife is right where it's supposed to be, nestled in your-" Bodie gave Doyle a toothy grin and lowered his voice. "Nestled in your crotch, nice and warm, right where it belongs." 

"Fuck you," Doyle said, anger rising. His knife was gone! He had it when? Christ, when was the last time he'd thought about it. Last week? The awful thing was that he had scratched his initials in his Swiss army knife on his thirteenth birthday, the very day his dad had given him the item as a gift. He'd kept it safe all these years, and had used it many times. He blinked, remembering the day he'd opened the box and the excitement he'd felt owning a grown up item like a real Swiss army knife. He'd got a small chisel from his father's tool box and scratched his initials in the handle: R.T.D. 

_Raymond Thomas Doyle._

Sweet Jesus, was it truly his knife? 

Doyle bit his inner cheek, remembering the day he defused the bomb that had been stuffed in Bodie's telephone. Then there was the time he'd been tied to that post in a cold, wet basement and they hadn't searched him thoroughly enough. It had taken him four hours to get to his knife and to cut himself free. That knife was important to him, and now it was gone. When had he lost it? 

He got into the car and turned the key. The engine roared to life. Bodie barely got the door closed before Doyle peeled out. In the windscreen mirror, he could see dirt spraying the air behind him. 

"You don't really think I thought that was your knife," Bodie said. "Even you can't be that daft." Doyle barely missed a pedestrian. He sailed through the road junction, blasting the horn at the unwary walker. "Doyle! Slow down. You're on a shorter fuse than necessary today. Maybe that bonk on the head loosened up a few screws, after all." 

Doyle remained silent but he did reduce his speed. He drove back to HQ, his anger flaring even as his blood ran cold. Why had his property been found at the crime scene? 

What did it all mean? Nothing? Was he the master of his fate? Or... 

Or did it mean everything. All the bad things. That his life was preordained; that he was destined to follow in his father's footsteps. 

Wait... Did he believe that? Did he think that because a killer's blood ran in his veins that he would turn into a killer as well? 

Wasn't it true, though? He was already a killer. Sure, it was legal. He killed for Queen and country. It was still killing. 

"It's not murder." 

"Eh?" Doyle said, swivelling his head to look at Bodie for a moment. "What's not murder?" 

"What we do." 

Doyle snorted noisily. "Yeah. Keep telling yourself that." 

"I don't have to justify myself or what I do to you or anybody." Bodie's tone was sharp and cold. "You don't need to either. We do what we're paid to do." 

"Kill." 

"Sometimes," Bodie said philosophically. "And sometimes," he poked Doyle's shoulder, "we save lives by what we do. Don't sell me short, mate. I'm doing the world a favour when I off some nutter terrorist or a kidnapper who threatens destruction for cold cash." 

Doyle glanced over at his partner. Bodie had crossed his arms, his face a marble mask. Bodie didn't like being thought of as a killer. Not any more. He'd given all of that up; changed. He liked being on what he considered the side of good. Doyle chewed on his lower lip. Maybe Bodie was right. Maybe a bloke didn't have to turn out like his parent. Maybe. 

Doyle wished he had answers, but all he had were more questions. 

\--------------------------------

"Stop watching me like you're afraid I'm going to go bananas any second." Doyle hoped he looked as put upon as he felt. He narrowed his eyes and lifted his lip, giving Bodie an annoyed glance. "I'm not crazy." He made a right and pulled into an empty spot a few hundred feet from his flat. "Not yet anyway." 

"You're not going to go crazy," Bodie insisted. "I won't allow it." 

"Oh?" Doyle laughed, and to his own ears it was cold and nasty. He turned off the engine and set the hand brake. "And you'll be willing to put a bullet in me head should I turn into a raving lunatic?"

"Don't know," Bodie said quietly. "I- it's not going to happen." He opened his door, and flipped the back seat up. Reaching in, he lifted the carrier bag out. 

"How do you know?" Doyle insisted, grabbing the six pack of beer from the back floorboard. "It was my knife, Bodie. At a crime scene. What if I'm having black-outs and don't know it." 

"No, you _think_ it was yours. There's no proof and you're not the only bloke in London with those initials." Bodie stared at him over the roof of the car. "So you're saying you don't remember killing that woman?" When Doyle didn't respond, he turned away and walked hurriedly up the front walkway. "I don't believe it," he said loud enough for Doyle to hear from his place behind Bodie. 

"I don't know what to say," Doyle admitted. "I don't feel like I killed that woman or any of the others. I don't remember any black outs." He gave a wry smile. "I guess I wouldn't remember, though. This is rubbish." He fished his key out of his jacket pocket and unlocked the exterior security door. Opening it, he let Bodie precede him. The door closed behind him with a soft whoosh. 

They climbed the two flights of stairs silently, and it wasn't until Doyle had opened his front door and put the beer on the kitchen table that he spoke again. "Let's go through this like any investigation." 

"All right." 

"First question: how did my knife get there?" 

Bodie pulled the take away containers from the bag, setting them in a neat row. The tantalising smells of Indian permeated the air; the ginger and tamarind made Doyle's nose twitch. On one hand, he was hungry. On the other, his stomach rebelled. Tension clutched at him, making him uneasy, unsettled. 

Bodie was quiet as he got out plates, forks and napkins. He put everything on the table before he looked at Doyle intently. "Here's an idea: when you were banged on the head. The knife fell out. A kid passing by found it, played with it, dropped it in the building. Went home. The killer uses the building to kill this girl." Bodie paused. "Another possibility: you lost yours last week on the Sanders op. This one today is purely coincidental. The lab will dust it for prints and when they don't find yours, it'll be settled." 

Doyle looked at Bodie, thinking hard. "Third idea: the killer has been with us. He saw my knife and copied it." 

"He saw your knife." Bodie was silent for a good minute before he admitted, "Interesting." His eyes went wide. "Christ, mate, the person who attacked you was the killer! He knows you. He took your knife and planted it." 

Doyle stood still, breathing roughly. "Christ, that's an awful thought. Makes sense, though. He bashes me and intends to take my knife. I fall into the canal. He doesn't want me dead; he wants me proved guilty of murder." Doyle scrubbed at his forehead. The idea that the killer knew him made Doyle's head ache. The thought that the killer had followed him made his skin ripple with goose flesh. His mouth was dry and his hand shook slightly. "He wants me to suffer, not die. He's setting me up. Bloody hell, he's framing me." He waved the container of chicken curry he held in his other hand. "But why?" 

Bodie took the chicken from Doyle. "Give me that before you dump it over and waste good food." He spooned helpings onto both plates. "There's the rub. Why. Simple word, yet full of meanings and intentions. Why." He picked a piece of chicken from his pile and popped it into his mouth, chewing and making noises of satisfaction. 

"Do you think with anything other than your stomach?" Doyle asked, slumping into one of the dining chairs. His appetite disappeared, replaced by a sour taste in his mouth. 

"Did you see anything else familiar in Phillips' little bags?" Bodie asked, licking his fingers. He reached for another container. 

Doyle considered that for a moment. "No. But then I didn't see all the evidence collected. Lord knows what the boys have at the lab."

"Then we'll have to visit the lab and see. Or at the least, find out what they've dug up." Bodie piled his own plate with aloo palak and spicy shrimp. He put a disk of naan on top of his food and leaned over to plop one on Doyle's plate. He added some of the two other containers to Doyle's plate and pushed it over to him. "Eat. You'll feel better." 

"Humph," Doyle said, lifting a fork. He dropped it back onto the table. "I'm worried." That was an understatement; he was terrified. "What if... What happens if there is more evidence that implicates me?" 

"Nobody would believe you could be guilty of murder." Bodie ate a shrimp. "I don't believe it. Cowley won't believe it." 

"He'd have to, if there was hard evidence against me." Doyle played with his own prawn. "I'd be arrested and put on remand. I doubt I'd get bail due to the seriousness of the crimes." He nibbled at the prawn before he dropped it onto his plate. "Plus my knowledge of investigations and how to find a suspect. They'd know I know how to evade the coppers."

Bodie chewed thoughtfully. "So let's play devil's advocate. Who'd want to set you up?" 

Doyle chuckled wryly. "You want a list? I've not been making friends for the past seven years, mate. Then there's me copper days. I've helped put dozens in prison. I've killed men. Those men have families or friends or mates or- Who the hell knows?"

"I'm your friend," Bodie said, grinning and showing his half chewed food. 

Doyle rolled his eyes. "I'm not sure that's to my advantage," he said sarcastically. 

"I'll have you know I'm a loyal and devoted friend." 

Doyle met Bodie's gaze. "You are that," he said sincerely. 

"Don't get maudlin." 

"Wouldn't dream of it," Doyle said, his heart thumping. Bodie was true and steady but even he would have his limits. If Doyle were having a mental breakdown, if he'd blacked out and killed three innocent women (so far, his brain reminded him), it wouldn't be fair to expect Bodie to stand by him. He stomped on the thought. Until he had some proof that he was going mad, he would believe he was being set up. His headache flared, pounding mercilessly. 

"Are you okay? You're not eating." Bodie used a piece of bread to wipe his plate. 

"My head is killing me." Doyle leaned his elbow onto the table. He pressed his forehead onto his palm. "Don't take this the wrong way but I need some space. Do you mind going to your own flat tonight?" 

Bodie stood up and cleared the table. He put the containers into the fridge. "You're not eating, I take it," he said, lifting Doyle's plate. 

"Can't." 

Doyle heard Bodie sigh. He didn't raise his head. He closed his eyes and listened while Bodie fussed about, covering his plate and putting it into the fridge. 

"I think I should stay. Sleep on the sofa. I won't bother you." 

Doyle lifted his head. "Please, Bodie. It's nothing personal. I want to be alone and think." Bodie didn't move. Doyle met his gaze. "My head hurts. I've been told my parent was executed for his horrible crimes. My mother isn't my mother but my aunt. Is it too much to ask for some peace and quiet?" 

Bodie's face paled. "No worries, mate." He turned and left the room. 

"Bodie!" Doyle stood up much too quickly. His head pounded and he saw stars for a moment. Leaning on the table, he breathed in and out until he was steady again. "Bodie, wait." 

Bodie stood at the door, coat on. "What?" He looked at Doyle with cool blue eyes. 

"Don't leave angry. It's not you; it's me. I feel like you're watching me, making sure I don't go crazy on somebody. No, wait. I'm not saying you _are_ , I just feel... Confused." 

Bodie put a hand on his arm. "We've been in each other's pockets for weeks now. Both of us need a few hours down time." His hand tightened. "You are not going crazy. You are being framed. Remember that." 

Doyle rested his forehead on Bodie's shoulder. "I'll try." 

"Good lad," Bodie said, rubbing his back. "Go and soak in the bath. Take some tablets and sleep. I'll be by first thing." 

"Seven, okay? We need to get an early start. Go to the lab-" 

"Stop." Bodie pushed him upright. "Night, Ray." 

"Night."

Once the door closed and he was alone, he stood staring at a scratch in the paint. Now what? Scream at the senseless killings? Rail at the injustice of it all? Wait. His mother... aunt. Christ, he needed to call her. Now. Tonight. 

Spurred into action, he went into the bathroom and took four headache tablets. After drinking a full glass of water, he went out into the lounge, sat on the sofa and dialled. 

\------------------------------------

Aunt Jane answered on the first ring, as if she were sitting by the phone, waiting. Doyle pictured her in his mind's eye. Slim and tidy, she kept her brown hair streaked with grey in a neat bob. She liked to wear bright coloured jumpers with grey or black trousers, along with white trainers. She was a simple woman, kind and energetic. She did have the Doyle family quick temper. Fast to rise and just as fast to forgive. 

_"Yes?"_

"It's Ray." Doyle closed his eyes at her familiar voice. 

_"Hello, Ray."_

Silence. Doyle cleared his throat. "Cowley told me." 

_"He said he would. I'm sorry you had to find out, sweetheart. It was never my intention to hurt you."_

"I know," he said softly. 

_"But it did hurt,"_ she said firmly. 

"Yeah." 

_"I doubt I can say anything to make it better, but I love you, darling."_ Her voice was full of emotion: sadness, hopefulness, trepidation. 

Doyle swallowed, his eyes filling. He was glad he was alone. Swiping at them, he said, "I know." He paused. 

"Ask me what you need to." 

"I don't know where to start. I don't want to make you remember, but..." 

_"You want to know, don't you? You want to know what happened and why."_ She paused. _"The reason it happened was he was an evil man. I kept you because you were innocent. None of this was your fault, Ray."_

"Wasn't yours either," he whispered. 

She made a soft noise, and Doyle knew she was crying. _"Thank you for saying that."_

"Have you felt guilty all these years?" 

_"Not all. There were times I could almost forget. You were a wonderful boy and I've never regretted my decisions; what your mum and dad did."_

Doyle swallowed and wiped his nose. "I wasn't so wonderful as a teenager." 

She laughed softly. _"There were times when you tried your parents' patience."_

"And yours?" 

_"Mine too._

Doyle smiled. "Sorry." 

_"I'm proud of you, darling."_

Again, Doyle felt the tears welling up. He breathed shakily. "I should go..." 

_"You'll come up soon? So we can talk?"_

"Yes. Soon. When this case is wrapped up. We'll talk." 

_"Bring that young man of yours. He appreciates a good tea."_ She cleared her throat. 

"Good night, Aunt..." Doyle didn't know what to call her now. Aunt Jane? Mum? He sighed, rubbing his temple with his right hand. 

_"Sleep well, Ray."_

The phone clicked as she hung up. Doyle stared at the receiver for a long while. Christ, what a fucking mess. He stood up and crossed to the drinks cabinet. A bottle of Chivas Regal caught his eye. It was a full container, with a bright label that looked newly printed. He lifted it, curious. He didn't remember buying it. Must have been Bodie. He was always trying different brands. Uncapping it, he lifted a glass to pour but changed his mind. Doyle took a pull from the bottle. It was smooth and strong, burning down his throat. It tasted good and warmed his belly. 

Doyle was so very cold, and the heat felt good. He drank again and again. Walking to the bedroom, he made himself comfortable on the mattress, pulled the blankets over him. He got well and truly pissed. 

\-------------------------------

"Doyle, what the fuck?" 

Bodie's shout brought Doyle to the surface slowly. He had to swim his way through layers of fog. His brain was muddy; his body weighed down by the cement blocks tied to his limbs. While he recognised Bodie's voice, he was confused and disoriented when Bodie began to yank at his clothing. He flailed his arms in protest. 

"Doyle!" 

The sting on his face brought his eyes open. "Hey!" Doyle cried. 

Bodie slapped him again before he pushed Doyle's tracksuit bottoms down. 

"Wha-? Stop!" Cool air hit Doyle's exposed lower body. "Bodie?" 

"Are you hurt? Where? Tell me where you're hurt!" Bodie tugged at his shirt. 

With his head swimming, Doyle pushed Bodie's hands away. Bodie pushed his arms down and in one swift movement, ripped the t-shirt off over his head. 

"Bodie! No!" Surely Bodie was going crazy. For a second he thought his partner intended to rape him. "No!" 

Bodie released him and he flopped back onto the bed. Doyle coughed, hacking into his hand. He spat and wiped it on the sheets. His hand landed in something sticky and cold. Christ, had he puked on himself. He blinked, and his eyes widened at the site. 

Doyle's bed was covered in blood. _He_ was covered in blood. "What the hell happened?" 

Bodie stood before him, reached out. "I don't see a wound. Are you hurt? Did you throw this up? Can a body vomit this much blood?" 

Bodie's face was white. His hands shook. Doyle blinked stupidly, his brain refusing to work. "Bodie?" He held out his arms, unsure what to do. 

Bodie turned around before he looked back at Doyle. "There are fucking bloody footprints all over the living room!" 

"What?" Doyle said yet again, feeling utterly stupid. "Bloody...? I don't understand." His belly twisted and he put a hand over his mouth. Lurching from the bed, he raced to the bathroom, barely making it to his knees before the toilet. He vomited until all he could bring up was bile. 

"It's not from your insides," Bodie said, staring down at him. 

"Eh?" Doyle swiped his hand across his mouth. 

Bodie poured a glass of water and handed it to him. "No blood in the toilet. What the fuck, Doyle. Where'd the blood come from?" 

Doyle drank a mouthful of water, swished it and spat it out. He drank again, swallowing this time. "I feel like shit." He stared down at Bodie's shoes. When Bodie didn't speak, he glanced up. "Bloody footprints?" 

"Yeah." 

Doyle looked at the bottoms of his feet. There was dried blood on them. "But why?" He blinked, unable to piece together the facts. 

Bodie flushed the loo and ran cold water. He dampened a flannel and handed it to Doyle. "Put this on your head. Stay here." Bodie left, returning a few minutes later. "There are no footprints in the corridor." 

"That's odd. Blood? Is it human?" Doyle asked, picking at a sticky patch on his upper thigh. He shivered in the coolness of the bathroom. 

"Get up and take a shower. We need to figure out what's going on." Bodie's tone was flat, emotionless. His face was the same. 

"Bodie, I didn't kill anybody." Doyle looked up into Bodie's eyes. 

Bodie stared back, nodded once and turned. "Hurry up," he said over his shoulder. 

Doyle slowly rose and turned on the taps. He tested the water. It was hot when he climbed in. He stood under the spray for a few moments, blinking water from his lashes. As the water ran down his body, he saw the brown streaks race across the bathtub surface and disappear down the drain. With a cry of anguish, Doyle dumped shampoo into his palm and scrubbed his head viciously. He washed himself thoroughly again and again until the water ran clear. He was glad the water running down his face hid his tears of confusion. He would have stayed under the hot spray until he turned into a prune but the water stopped. Wiping his eyes, he saw Bodie standing before him holding a towel. He thrust it at Doyle. 

"Brought you clean clothes. Get dressed. You need to see the bedroom." Bodie turned and left the bathroom. "We need to figure out what the fuck is going on." 

Doyle towelled himself dry and dressed. He brushed his teeth to get rid of the nasty taste in his mouth and ran a comb through his hair. When he stared at himself in the mirror, he saw a man who looked exhausted. He had bags under his eyes and his mouth drooped. He felt drained of emotion. His head pounded but for now, he ignored the pain. He didn't bother shaving. In the corridor, Bodie stood at the doorway to his bedroom. Doyle joined him and got his first good look into the room. What he saw made him gasp. Made his heart feel as if it stopped. Made his world screech to a halt. 

The bed was covered in blood. It looked like two or three litres of it had been dumped on the bed linens. He could see the outline of his body on the white sheets. He shivered. It reminded him of the outlines of dead bodies that coppers used at a crime scene. 

"What the hell?" Doyle said. "Christ, where did it come from?" He looked down at himself, surprised he wasn't bleeding. 

Bodie sighed. "Don't know." 

Doyle looked down the corridor and out into the lounge. He saw the footprints. He imagined Bodie opening the door and seeing them sprinkled across the floor leading to his bedroom. 

"I- This is mad," Doyle said, his throat tight. "Bodie, I didn't do anything. I couldn't have!" 

Bodie put a hand on his arm. "What happened? Think. You have to remember." 

"No. Nothing." Doyle pressed his fingers to his forehead. "Do you think I-" he paused, swallowed hard. "...killed somebody?" 

"No. No! There isn't any proof. You didn't do anything," Bodie insisted. "But we have to figure this out before somebody sees this, or something else that implicates you." Bodie's r/t beeped, cutting the air with its shrill ring. "Shit." He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled his r/t. "3.7." 

"3.7, this is dispatch." 

Bodie recognized Kristine's voice. "Ah, good morning," he said, his tone of lightness clearly forced. He grimaced. Quickly, he said, "I'm over at 4.5's flat and I did something really stupid. I unlocked the door but forgot to turn off the alarm." 

"3.7, I've dispatched the lads on that alarm code." Bodie heard a paper rustle. "It's been four minutes since they left the building." 

"Can you belay that? It's all my fault," Bodie said cheekily. "Cowley can tear me throat out later. Please, sweetheart. I'll owe you." 

"3.7, calls are recorded," Kristine said, laughter coming through the small speaker. "But I'll pass on the information to the alarm boys. And do be careful, Bodie. You know how Mr Cowley feels about wasting the precious resources we have here. I shall not take responsibility for mustering forces on a false call out." 

"Yes, ma'am," Bodie said, forcing a laugh. He looked at Doyle, shrugged, shook his head. "3.7, out." 

Doyle lifted his head and met Bodie's eyes. "Are you sure?" he asked quietly, his voice trembling. 

"Eh?" 

"That I didn't do- this. Something horrible." Doyle waved a hand towards the bedroom, his body trembling. "Are you sure?" 

"Yes, of course I'm sure. We need to think about getting things set to rights." Bodie began to gather up the other items in the room that might have been splattered with blood: the t shirt and tracksuit bottoms, a pair of socks, Doyle's running shoes. 

"Wait. Should we have the lab boys here? Check to see if the blood is from a person?" 

Bodie's r/t went off again. "Christ," he muttered. "3.7." 

_"Cowley here."_

"Sir?" 

_"Are you alone?"_

"Yeah," Bodie lied smoothly. 

_"There's been another murder."_

Doyle put a hand on the wall to steady himself. Bodie looked intently at him as he spoke. "I'll get Doyle and-" 

_"No. Bodie, there's been an anonymous call made to persons with interests that are not parallel to CI5's. An arrest warrant has been issued."_

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

_"You're to meet me at Doyle's flat. You are not to enter nor are you to alert him to our presence. Do I make myself clear?"_

The change in Cowley's tone on the last order made Doyle's blood run cold. There were apparently other people in Cowley's office as he was making the call. People who believed whatever the anonymous caller had said about Doyle. 

Doyle had no doubt who was with his controller, and who believed him guilty: Willis. MI5. They were coming for him. 

"Is this an Operation Susie?" Bodie asked quietly. 

_"Don't be ridiculous, 3.7."_ Cowley snapped. _"We'll be on site in thirty minutes."_ The r/t clicked. 

Bodie flicked off the button and held Doyle's gaze. "We're in big trouble." 

"Yeah. He's warning us. Me. Not you." Doyle turned on his heels. "You'd best leave so it looks like you're surprised when they come in to arrest me." 

Bodie sniggered. "You're daft if you think I'm going anywhere without you." 

"Look at that mess! You have no clue what I've done!" Doyle shouted. 

"And neither have you!" Bodie shouted back. 

Doyle glared at Bodie. He thought about the past few days: the bodies, the Swiss army knife, his bedroom. Somebody was out for him, and doing a fine job of it. They'd been ahead of him this entire time. Doyle was losing the game he hadn't realised he was playing. 

"Think for a change with your head instead of your fucking guilty conscience! You are not responsible for the dead women! Jesus, Doyle stop playing the martyr. It gets old fast," Bodie said coldly. "I'm tired of it." 

"Thanks a lot, mate," Doyle said, his own words as cold as Bodie's. "The last few days haven't been much of a party for me." 

Bodie sighed and looked up for a moment. Then he put both hands on Doyle's shoulders. "So let's make a plan and get to the bottom of them. You don't remember, so you very well might have been drugged on top of being pissed. Double whammy." 

Doyle considered that. "I might have been. I know I felt drunk, woozy." He wrinkled his forehead. 

"What?" 

"I had a few drinks but now that I think about it, I felt odd. More like stoned than drunk. I was downing the Chivas." 

"Where's the bottle?" Bodie went into the living room and inspected the drinks cabinet, looking at each bottle. He uncapped them, one by one, and sniffed the contents. "Chivas? Where did you get it?" 

"Thought you brought it." Doyle said, looking down at the various bottles. "I was drinking in bed." 

"It's not here. Go and look in your room. Don't touch anything." 

"Won't matter much now. My fingerprints are everywhere and there's no hiding the blood." 

"I'll check the kitchen." 

Doyle went into the bedroom. Gingerly he trod across the bloody floor, avoiding most of the splotches. He pulled the bedclothes off and shook them. Nothing. He bent down and looked under the bed. Nothing there. No bottle anywhere. On the way back to the lounge, he checked the bathroom rubbish bin and the dirty clothes basket. Again, no bottle. 

Doyle met Bodie in the living room. "Well?" 

"Nope. I checked the bin. Two empty lager cans but they've been in there since we drank them the other night. No Chivas at all." 

"Under the sink?" 

"No, and not in the cooker or the fridge. Nor in any cabinets." 

"Great," Doyle snapped. "Marvellous." 

"It doesn't prove nor disprove anything." Bodie's r/t beeped. 

_"Bodie, this is dispatch. Mr Cowley will be at your location in five minutes. He requests that you meet him on the pavement in front of 4.5's flat at 7:45 sharp. Dispatch out."_

"Yes, ma'am. Bodie, out." Bodie pocketed the r/t. "You know he's telling us to lay low while he figures out what's going on." 

Doyle groaned. "Damn it. It is an Op. Susie. He's tossing us to the wolves." 

Bodie's eyebrow rose. "You think so?" 

"You don't?" Doyle asked, fear clenching his guts. He hoped he didn't look as frightened as he felt because he needed to be strong to survive this. "Bodie, I'm not running. Let Willis have me." 

Bodie caught Doyle's hand. "That’s not what Cowley wants!" 

"You trust him, don't you?" Doyle asked, studying Bodie's face intently. 

"Yeah." 

"I trust you so what should we do?" 

"We're going to one of my bolt holes to regroup. I'm not standing around and letting MI5 shoot first and ask questions later. You know they will. You were in the same railway carriage as I was," he reminded Doyle. 

Doyle took in a deep breath. "Cowley needs to test my blood. See if I was drugged." 

"What if you were plain pissed? Drank until you passed out? Plus what difference would it make. You were out of it while some nutter did this." Bodie glanced around, disgust on his face. 

"I don't know. I suppose it's possible. Still, he should run a test." 

"So we'll get a sample to him but we need to be free to move about." Bodie glanced at his watch. "Less than ten minutes." 

"What about this mess?" Doyle said, waving at the blood spattered room. 

"Leave it. If Willis is coming with Cowley, then they already know something's up. You've been ratted out, mate. Somebody, besides me, of course, is after your pretty arse." Bodie licked his lips lecherously, making Doyle groan in exasperation. "We need to be free to move about, gather whatever evidence we need to prove you innocent. We need to trap this bastard and I need to put a bullet in his fucking head." 

"I think I'm going to be sick again." Doyle put a hand over his mouth. 

Bodie yanked his arm. "Later. Get your gun, cash, ammo, passport. Go out the back and I'll meet you over by WangLo's." 

Doyle rubbed his temples. "I'm only doing this to get the goods on this killer. We have to make sure he doesn't kill anybody else. WangLo's. Thirty minutes. I reckon you'll want an order of egg rolls, too?" 

Bodie grinned. "Later. Let's get you clear first. Then we'll have a good meal. I've missed me breakfast." He elbowed Doyle. "On you, of course." 

"Course," Doyle said. He grabbed Bodie's hand, squeezed it. Bodie squeezed back. 

"Move it!" Bodie ordered, running for the front door. He slammed it behind him. 

Doyle moved. He put on his biker boots. Once he'd put on his shoulder holster and made sure his gun was fully loaded, he pulled on his heavy green wool jacket. Extra ammunition clips went into his outer pockets. Inside jacket pockets took his passport, two hundred pounds, driving licence and CI5 ID. He would have added his Swiss army knife but it was gone. Doyle scanned the bureau, snagged his watch and a gold chain Bodie had given him for Christmas last year. 

Doyle hurried through the front of the flat, locking the door with the keys he'd scooped up from the coffee table as he'd passed by. He quietly descended the stairs and keeping to the wall, he went over to the main door. He looked out. 

Bodie was leaning against the wrought iron fence surrounding the building. Three cars pulled up. Two he recognized as CI5 vehicles. The other he reckoned was MI5. Bodie sauntered over to Cowley, hands in his pockets. He didn't look back at the building but kept his eyes forward. Willis stood before Bodie. He was waving his arms; looked like he was shouting. Two of Willis' men went over to Doyle's Capri. One of them used an iron bar to smash the driver's window to get into it and the other had a similar bar that he popped the boot open with. 

Doyle didn't wait any longer. He had a sick feeling that they would find more evidence to implicate him. He should turn himself in; let them investigate and find him innocent. 

A cold finger of dread raced down his neck and back. What happens if they didn't discover he was being framed? What if whoever was out to get him was good enough at this game that Doyle was convicted? Convicted? He snorted with disgust. He wouldn't make it to trial. He'd be killed in prison while waiting for his day in court. He'd made far too many enemies to survive for more than a few days in jail. 

Doyle sighed, turned and slipped out the back entrance. He knew he was doing the wrong thing but unless he was free to investigate his own case, he was doomed. Bodie would stay on the case, with or without permission, if Doyle were incarcerated, until he proved Doyle innocent. But Bodie was one man. If the bastard framing him was clever enough to make a good case, why wouldn't he merely rid himself of Bodie's interference? A bullet in the dark and Bodie was dead. As he trotted down the passageway between the buildings, he told himself he was running to protect Bodie. For now, he almost believed it. 

\---------------------------------

 

Doyle hunkered in the doorway next to WangLo's Chinese Takeaway, still arguing with himself about whether or not he should turn himself in. He looked through the window of the closed shop. One hand-lettered sign told customers that they were open from 11 am. to 11 pm., delivery within two miles available. He glanced at the yellowed menu taped to the window. The faded pictures of Egg Foo Yong, Shrimp Steamed Dumplings, Peanut Chicken and Pork Fried Rice danced across his vision. He blinked, glancing around. Was it raining? Wiping at his eyes, he looked dazedly down at his wet fingers. He wiped them on his trouser leg and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. 

His brain whirled even as it felt thick and confused. The see-saw effect made Doyle's belly lurch and he breathed in through his nose. The cool morning air felt good against his heated skin. He heard a car engine approaching so he melted back into the shadowed recess. Doyle waited, holding his breath. Would it be one of Willis' henchmen, come to haul him off for his crimes? 

It certainly couldn't be Bodie because the vehicle came to a halt slowly, no screeching tyres or shuddering metal. It wasn't Bodie's motor either. It was a nondescript brown Cortina. 

"Oi!" 

At the familiar hail, Doyle peered out. Bodie waved and Doyle walked around to the passenger's side. Inside, he put back his head. "Are we doing the right thing?" 

"Not a clue." Bodie pulled out onto the relatively deserted early morning roadway and stomped on the gas. The tyres gave a weak chirp as the rubber caught on the asphalt. 

"How did you get away?" 

"Didn't. I walked up to the lads, stood and chatted for a few minutes. Porter, the little weasel, was making an inventory of all the shit they were finding in your motor." 

"All the shit?" Doyle echoed. "Marvellous." 

Doyle must have looked as shell shocked as he felt because Bodie kept giving him quick glances. "Don't look so surprised. This is a set up so it must follow the rules. There was a giant bloody butcher's knife." Bodie shifted into fourth. "And I don't mean bloody in the swearing sense." He slowed down, turned right then left. "I mean as in covered in blood. It was hidden under the spare tyre, under layers of yesterday's newspaper." 

Doyle stared at Bodie, his eyes aching from fatigue and grief. "There is no way I will ever convince them I didn't kill anybody." 

"Don't be daft. Nobody will believe it," Bodie insisted.

"Who's nobody? You? Cowley? Jax? Anson? Do you think that will count in court? Help my defence? 'Me mates say I didn't do it.' The judge will certainly dismiss the case," Doyle said bitingly. 

"Then we'll have to find things that will count in court. But it's not going that far." Bodie pulled up to the kerb. 

"What are you doing?" 

"Calling a friend. We need to get your blood tested." 

Doyle watched while Bodie made a quick phone call. He hung up, returning to the car. "Done. It's close by. Nurse friend of mine." He gave Doyle a smirk and waggled his eyebrow. "Water under the bridge, mate. I've only eyes for you now." 

"Moron." Doyle thought for a moment. "What if my blood is clear? No drugs." 

"Doesn't matter. You were pissed. We'll have the alcohol level. That will prove you couldn't have been out of the flat, let alone attacked anybody. If you were stinking drunk, any woman worth her salt would have given you a good shove and sent you flying." Bodie pulled up in front of a nondescript building. "Come on, then." 

Bodie pressed a buzzer and they were let in. Two floors up and Bodie knocked. A pretty bird with dark hair and blue eyes, dressed in a nurse's uniform, opened the door. She gave both men the once over. Doyle smiled.

"Bodie," she said. "You're shit for family, you know that?"

"Family?" Doyle asked. 

"Third cousins," she said. 

"Sheila, Doyle. Doyle, Sheila." 

"Hello," Doyle said. 

Bodie pushed Doyle towards her. "Thanks, love." 

Sheila motioned Doyle into the kitchen where she'd set out a white cloth. On it was a needle and two vials. "All sterilised," she said to Doyle's unasked question. "Sit down." 

Sheila was quick and efficient. She had two vials of blood drawn in minutes. After putting a small plaster on the injection site, she smiled. "All set." 

Bodie handed her a small roll of cash. "You'll hand it directly to Cowley?" 

"Of course. I am, after all," Sheila said with a grin, "a professional woman." 

Bodie kissed her cheek. "I owe you." 

She laughed. "You've owed me since we were in primary school." 

"Cheers!" Bodie said. "Come on, Doyle. Quit gawking." 

Doyle stood up. "Ta muchly. I owe you also." 

"Go on, you two. Men," she said with exasperation. 

Bodie grinned at her on the way out the door. Doyle thanked her again. He followed Bodie out to the Cortina, the spot on his arm throbbing lightly. He rubbed at it as he climbed into the motor. 

"Now what?" 

Bodie started the engine. "We regroup. Make a list of who did this. You wrack your curly head and figure out if you know anybody who knew your father." 

"My father? I didn't even know that bastard was my father until a few days ago. Even if I make a list, why would somebody set me up as a spree killer? Why not just put a bullet in me brain and get it over with? This is way too much work!" 

"Because killing you outright is far too easy. You don't suffer. You're gone. Poof. Your little friend doesn't have fun." They fell silent until Bodie stopped at a traffic light. "Think, mate. Who would hate you so much that he'd want you sent down same as your father?" 

Doyle wished his head wasn't pounding so fiercely. Maybe then he could think. Maybe then he wouldn't sound so stupid when he said, "Who?" 

"Who indeed." Bodie put the gear box in neutral, fingers tapping on the steering wheel. "Who would want to torment you for the pleasure of it? Who would enjoy watching you squirm, while knowing you were innocent?"

"Stop asking me philosophical questions that have no answers," Doyle said, not able to keep the annoyance from his voice. 

"Ah," Bodie said, waving a finger in Doyle's face, "but these questions do have answers. We just don't know them yet." 

Bodie drove down a few more roads, going left then right, the quick turns making Doyle motion sick. A residual effect of his hangover, apparently. "If I don't get some headache tablets, my head will explode." 

"Your wish is my command," Bodie said smartly. He navigated a road junction and turned down a deserted street that dead ended in a brick wall with a large metal door set in it. He got out and opened the padlock hanging on the door with a key from his pocket. After lifting the roller door up, he ran back, rubbing his hands together. "You're going to love this." Bodie drove into the dark area, killed the engine and climbed from the car. 

Doyle swivelled in his seat, watching as Bodie shut the door and flipped several wall switches. A series of overhead fluorescent lights slowly hummed and one by one, flickered to life, illuminating the large space. The size of the exterior hid the spacious interior. The space was huge, probably 30 to 50 metres. There were enormous lumps hidden under tarps. Vehicles, Doyle reckoned. Smaller lumps rested under yet more tarps. Bodie gaily waved at him, going from one lump to another to yank off tarpaulins. Small clouds of dust rose as he dropped the coverings. 

There was a white Vauxhall saloon car, motor bikes of various makes and sizes, an old green military Jeep and a slick looking 1967 Aston Martin. The Aston looked like something James Bond had driven in a film, except instead of silver this one was jet black. The paint was dull from a coating of dust but otherwise it looked like it was ready to roar off in a cloud of squealing tyres. If Doyle weren't so tired and heart sick he would have admired the sports car. Now all he felt was- not much of anything. A black cab and an older grey and yellow flat bed lorry that looked as if some kids had painted it with spray cans rounded out the array of motorised items. 

Bodie came over and leaned down. "Come on, mate. You need a hot cuppa and something to eat. Then we'll figure out our next move. We've got work to do." 

Doyle nodded. Bodie walked off and began to putter. Doyle went into what looked to be designated as the living area. He sat on the camp bed, mutely watching Bodie fire up a portable gas cooker. Next he filled a kettle with water from a jug he unsealed. Bodie dug through some boxes before he apparently found what he'd been looking for because he let out a small cry of triumph. Tiredly, Doyle's brain figured out that he had opened boxes of emergency rations and was pouring water into small cooking pots. Humming merrily, Bodie dumped the contents of the rations into the pots. When steam rose from the pots, he stirred their contents. The kettle whistled; Bodie poured hot water over tea bags that he'd put into metal cups. He added powdered milk and sugar to both, setting them aside to steep. Next he lifted the lids on the pots, tasted both and nodded approvingly. 

Doyle rubbed his eyes and yawned. "How long before the blood test comes back?" He wasn't feeling any better. Usually by now, he'd have shrugged off a hangover caused by too much booze. This felt different. Even if the tests came back negative, he reckoned he'd been dosed with something that didn't agree with him. 

"Probably a day or so. I suppose it depends on what they find. Eat this," Bodie said, shoving a metal bowl into Doyle's hands. 

"What is it?" Doyle said, sniffing. The fragrance of maple and sugar wafted up. His mouth watered. Grateful that his stomach seemed to have settled, he breathed in the tantalising fragrance. He hadn't realised how hungry he was! Doyle spooned up the contents. The warmth felt wonderful. "Oatmeal," he said. "Good." 

"Ta." Bodie ate his portion quickly, scraping his spoon against the metal. He got up and spooned a yellow mixture into his own bowl. "Eggs?" 

Doyle finished the last spoonful of oatmeal. "Sure." Bodie dumped in a scoop. With each bite, he began to feel more human. His stomach accepted the food and his body was pleased that he was refuelling it. The eggs tasted all right, certainly not like fresh eggs, but decent enough for a quick meal. Finished, he put down the bowl. "Ta." He fetched both cups of tea. 

Bodie took one of the cups with a nod of thanks. Doyle sank onto the camp bed beside Bodie and slurped the hot liquid. 

"Ohhh," Doyle said gratefully after a long sip. "Christ, but that's good. Thanks." 

"I'm here to serve," Bodie said, a mischievous grin on his face. 

"You're an arse," Doyle said. He finished his tea and yawned. Then yawned again. "Sorry." He covered his mouth. "Can't see straight." 

"Put your head down," Bodie said. "Go on. Sleep." 

To Doyle's surprise, Bodie threaded his hand through Doyle's hair and encouraged him to put his head onto his lap. Bodie was a considerate lover but rarely was he overtly affectionate. Doyle teared up and buried his head into Bodie's stomach. 

"Hey. It's all right," Bodie said, stroking his hair. "You’re tired and you're coming off whatever shit that arsehole gave you. Things will be better after you sleep." 

"Stop it." 

Bodie stopped his petting. "Eh? Stop what?" 

"Being so bloody nice to me." 

"You're a moron, Ray." Bodie thumped his shoulder. 

"Cheers." Doyle sniffled and yawned again. 

"Come on, shift it. I've some things I need to take care of while you close your peepers." 

Doyle moved to allow Bodie to stand. "What are you going to do?" 

"Never you mind. A lad's got to have his secrets. Keeps the mystery in the relationship." Bodie ignored Doyle's two fingered salute, shook out a blanket and dropped it onto him. "We need fresh grub, plus I have some thinking to do. Something about this mess is bug-" 

Doyle was asleep before Bodie had finished his sentence. 

\-------------------------------------

Doyle woke to a darkening space. The grimy skylight was dimming rapidly. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and looked at his watch. 

"Bloody hell," he muttered. "Six hours. Six wasted hours sleeping." Doyle glanced around. No Bodie. Marvellous. What sort of trouble had he got into without Doyle keeping a close eye on him? Doyle sniggered at the thought that Bodie needed a minder. He stood up, stretching out the kinks before he located the jug of water. He splashed some into a reasonably clean bucket in order to wash his face, neck and hands. Using a square of towelling, he dried off. The camp stove beckoned and Doyle responded to its call. The water boiled in short order. The bracing cup of strong tea with extra sugar and powdered milk went down a treat, along with a tin of peaches. He was drinking a second mug when the roller door started to move. 

Doyle sprinted across the space, pulling his weapon. He slid behind the cab. Crouching down, he waited, gun at the ready. As the door rose, he saw feet then legs. The familiar torso followed. Doyle stood up, flicking the safety on. 

"Oi!" called Bodie. "Don't shoot or anything, mate. I come bearing gifts." 

"I should shoot you for taking off," Doyle grumbled, going over to divest Bodie of one of the carrier bags. He sniffed the air. "Chinese." 

"Plus good English beer," Bodie offered, putting the other two bags on an old metal table. "And even better English biscuits. Or is that the other way round?"

Doyle scowled. "Does it matter? You'd eat cardboard if it was dipped in ketchup." 

Bodie grinned. "I'm a growing boy." 

"Yeah, yeah. You need lubrication, right?" 

"Correct. That's why I love you. You're almost as smart as I am." Bodie opened two cans of beer. He held one out to Doyle. 

"Almost?" Doyle asked, drinking the cold liquid. He put the can down and dished up the food in equal measure until he got to the egg rolls. He passed on the crunchy rolls, putting two on Bodie's plate. "Here. Dig in." 

"You owe me for half," Bodie said, taking the plate and tucking in. 

Doyle picked at the pepper beefsteak and twirled a thick lo mein on his fork. "Where were you?" 

"Got news," Bodie said, spilling rice down his shirt. "I've also brought you oranges and bananas." 

"Cretin. Thanks." 

Bodie picked the rice grains off with his fingers and popped them into his mouth. "How are you feeling?" 

"Much better," Doyle said between bites. 

"Called Cowley. No news yet on the blood test. He says 48 hours." 

"Government efficiency," Doyle scoffed. 

"Can't drag results out of thin air. They're more for our benefit. Willis wouldn't buy the results anyway since we did them on the downlow." Bodie ate for another minute. "Made a call to ex-DCI Gently." 

"Oh?" Doyle ate a pea pod, waiting patiently. After a few minutes, when Bodie seemed to be more interested in his dinner, Doyle prodded, "And...?" 

"I'm eating!" Bodie said indignantly. 

Doyle threw a piece of sweet and sour chicken at Bodie's head, hitting him dead on the centre of his forehead. 

"Hey!" Bodie glared. "I spend the entire afternoon working on this bloody mess of a case. You have no right to assault me with poultry." 

Doyle shook his head, smiling. "Sorry. My abject apologies. What did you find out?" 

"Our estimable inspector has been industriously working on the case since we spoke with him." 

Doyle raised an eyebrow. "He's been working on the spree killer case on his own?" 

"Yes. After we spoke to him, he said he had an inkling that there was something more that he didn't know so he began to dig. He spent two days interviewing anybody who lived on Pennywell's road back in the day." Bodie paused to drink beer and eat more beef. "He wants to see us as soon as possible." 

Doyle lunged to his feet. "Why didn't you say so? We're wasting time sitting here, stuffing our faces!" 

"I'm not stuffing my face," Bodie said indignantly. "I'm fuelling up in case we don't get a meal for a while. And for that matter, you didn't stuff anything. You ate about as much as a six year old." 

"Had tea and a tin of peaches right before you came back with Chinese. You abandoned me, remember. I was on my own." Doyle put on his most forlorn look. 

"Poor Doyle. You're having a rough week, eh? First you find out you're the child of a spree killer and then you're left on your own by your mean partner." 

"I do put up with a lot." Doyle sighed. "It's not funny, Bodie. I _am_ the child of a killer."  
Bodie stared at him. Doyle could almost see the cogs in his brain whirring. "What?" 

"If you start in with the wallowing in misery or the 'I'm a martyr' thing, I swear I'll put a bullet in you meself!" 

"That's not fair," Doyle snapped, angry. "You can't dismiss that like it doesn't mean anything." 

"I never said it didn't mean anything. I said don't wallow in it. Don't make it bigger than it is." 

"Bigger? How the hell could it get any bigger?" Doyle threw out his hands. "I don't know who I am." 

Bodie snorted inelegantly. He stood in front of Doyle, holding his upper arms tightly. "That's a load of rubbish, and you know it. You're who you always were. The arse who got your mum pregnant was a serial killer, that's true. But if you think that for one moment I'm going to believe that fact will make you like him, turn you into a killer, then you're mad. Forgive me," he said derisively, "if I find that a load of bollocks!"

Doyle sighed deeply. Exhaustion of the spiritual variety wanted to take over. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against Bodie's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I didn't want you to get dragged into anything like this, ever." 

"Doyle, give it a rest, will you? I can only take so much 'woe is me' and 'let me be a martyr' talk." Bodie covered the back of Doyle's head with his hand and held on. "You have to let me make my own decisions. I'm a grown man, in case you've forgotten. I'm here because we're a team, and you don't break up a team." 

"What did I do to deserve you?" Doyle said, his voice thick with emotion. Having Bodie with him kept his world from crashing into itself. 

"Nothing, yet, but I still have hope," Bodie said sarkily. 

Doyle chuffed against his jacket. Bodie chuckled. He put a hand under Doyle's chin and lifted his head up. Leaning in, he pressed his lips to Doyle's. Doyle groaned softly against Bodie's mouth and returned the kiss. He wasn't sure he was making the proper decision, allowing Bodie to become immersed in the disaster his life was turning into, but he wasn't strong enough to fight Bodie off. He _wanted_ Bodie beside him, selfish as that notion was. Not that Bodie would let himself be run off. Bodie was loyal. He'd proven that again and again. 

Pressing himself against Bodie, Doyle wrapped his arm around Bodie's neck and deepened the kiss. He whimpered and let Bodie in when Bodie's tongue demanded entrance. Mouth open, he encouraged his lover to ravish his mouth. Trembling from Bodie's onslaught, he pulled away only to breathe before he dived back in. With one hand Bodie opened the back door of the cab and ended the kiss. Eyes flashing with desire, Bodie shoved Doyle into the cab and undid his jeans and zip. 

"Lift up," Bodie demanded, pulling on the waistband of his jeans. "Let me at you." Doyle complied, hiking his bottom into the air so that Bodie could drag his jeans and pants down to his knees. Bodie grinned devilishly before he leaned down and wrapped his lips around Doyle's cock. 

Doyle cried out, bucking his hips. Bodie wrapped one hand around the base of Doyle's cock. Doyle shuddered from the feelings coursing through him. His entire world centred on his cock. On the feel of Bodie's lips circling his flesh. On the pull as he dragged his mouth up and down, licking his cock head and flicking his tongue into the slit. Doyle breathed roughly, his own hands palming Bodie's head. It didn't take long for Doyle to let out a shout, orgasming into Bodie's throat. He fell back against the upholstery, breathing raggedly. With a parting lick, Bodie released his cock. Doyle shuddered, the high of the orgasm buzzing through his body. He reached for Bodie, manoeuvring him up until he was straddling his body and his flies were within reach. Fingers shaking, he freed Bodie's thick cock and lifted his head. Gently, he lapped at the warm flesh, teasing the tip with his tongue. Bodie leaned on the door, his forehead resting on the window. 

Doyle paused, looking up at Bodie. He waited until Bodie glanced down at him. Giving Bodie a wicked grin, he sucked Bodie's cock into his mouth. Bodie let out a low moan of pleasure, his eyes closing. 

"Christ, Ray." 

"Hmmmm," Doyle said. He enjoyed the reaction that his humming had. It made Bodie shiver. He held Bodie's cock by the root and let Bodie fuck his face. Doyle palmed Bodie's sac and tickled the area behind them. 

Doyle revelled in the sounds Bodie was making: Moans and groans and rough breathing. Doyle gently scraped his teeth on Bodie's cock. Bodie let out a shout. Semen pulsed into Doyle's mouth. He swallowed, grinning with delight. He loved making Bodie lose it. 

"Ray," Bodie said breathlessly. He backed up in the tight confines until he was able to lean down. He captured Doyle's mouth in a deep kiss. 

Doyle moaned softly, returning Bodie's kiss. They enjoyed each other's mouths for many minutes until Doyle thumped him lightly on the arm. Bodie pulled back to look at Doyle. 

"What?" Bodie asked. 

"I know you'll think I'm being morose, but..." 

"Go on, spit it out." 

Doyle looked away and said softly, "Love you." 

"Ah, Ray, it's all right. We're both bundles of raw nerves. I feel the same, just feel like a berk for saying it to another bloke." Bodie put the back of his hand along Doyle's cheek. "Look at me." When Doyle complied, he said, "I love you as well. Generally. When you're not being a rat-tempered bas- Hey! Hitting isn't the way to show your devotion!" 

Doyle laughed, and pulled Bodie down until he lay on Doyle. He gave Bodie a loud smacking kiss on the lips. "You keep me sane." 

Bodie rolled his eyes. "Then I've failed horribly." 

With a bark of laughter, Doyle looked at his watch. "What time were we supposed to meet Gently?" 

Bodie grabbed Doyle's wrist to look at his watch. "Christ. About thirty minutes ago." 

"We're late and he's helping me?" 

"We're late and he's helping us," Bodie said firmly. "Come on. Quit distracting me so we can get moving. Our man won't wait forever." 

"You are so dead." Doyle slapped his hand over his mouth. "Sorry," he muttered. 

"Stop it right now," Bodie snapped, pulling Doyle's hand away. "Using a figure of speech isn't a crime! We all say, I'm going to kill you, during an argument. That doesn't mean you're going to actually kill somebody. You do not need to feel guilty because that piece of shit Pennywell was the man who fathered you. He wasn't your dad; he was even less than a bloke who wanks in a cup so some bird can try and get knocked up. He was nothing more than your sperm contributor and he is _not_ you. Now that's the end of it." Bodie glared at Doyle. "Got it? Say 'yes, Bodie'." 

"Yes, Bodie," Doyle said dutifully. "And thanks." 

"You're welcome." Bodie climbed out of the cab.

Doyle followed. "I need to take a leak." 

"I'll join you." 

The men both took care of business. Doyle washed his hands in cold water and splashed more on his face. He ran his fingers through his hair while Bodie pulled on a heavier jacket. 

"Here," he said, tossing Doyle a toggle coat. "It'll be warmer than your bomber jacket. Plus you can put an extra piece in your waistband." Bodie held out a snub-nose .38. "And this." He tossed Doyle a Swiss army knife. 

Doyle caught the knife and took the gun, tucking it behind his back. He made sure his 9mm was fully loaded, safety on, and two extra clips were in his pocket, nestled alongside the knife. Bodie made sure he was similarly kitted out. Doyle opened the roller door while Bodie drove the cab out. After he closed the door, he hopped into the front passenger seat. 

"Best sit in back. Look like a customer." 

Bodie pulled out a black wool flat cap, put it on and tugged it down over his forehead to hide a good bit of his face. Doyle got into the back. On the seat was a brown knitted stocking hat that he picked up. 

"Somebody's gran made this," Doyle grumbled, poking a hole into the badly turned out hat with his finger. 

"Hey! I made that."

"You?" 

"Yeah, primary school. After school I'd go over to me gran's. She taught me. It's a family memento," Bodie said, driving down the alleyway, then out onto the main road. 

"Then I shall treasure it." Doyle patted the cap affectionately, imagining a nine or ten year old Bodie knitting in front of his gran's kitchen fire on a cold day after school. 

Bodie turned on the overhead indicator to let the world know that the cab was taken. He drove sedately while Doyle fidgeted on the back seat. 

"Can't you go any faster?" Doyle said, trying to keep from sounding like a whining child. He failed. He clamped his mouth shut before he sat up straight. "What about the r/ts?" 

"I took the batteries out of the CI5 ones. Knowing Cowley, he's got them all bugged." 

"Good thinking." Doyle sat back and chewed a fingernail. "What about Cowley?" 

"What about him?" Bodie turned left at the next crossroad and glanced into the rear view mirror. 

"I want to check in to see if there are any lab results." 

"All right," Bodie said. He pulled up to a kerb and Doyle reached his hand out over Bodie's shoulder. Bodie sighed dramatically and fished a coin from his pocket. He dropped into Doyle hand. "You owe me." 

"I know," Doyle said sincerely. 

"I didn't-" 

"It's all right. I know what you meant." 

"Go on. Make it quick." Bodie gave him a quirky smile. "And call Gently." He waved a piece of paper in front of Doyle's nose. Doyle ripped it from his fingers with a disgusted grunt. "Tell him we're on our way." 

Doyle held out his hand again. Bodie laughed, and gave Doyle all the pocket change he had. "I shall want that back." 

Doyle closed his hand around the money and tapped Bodie's shoulder. "Moron." 

Doyle dialled Cowley's direct, secure line. The one that Cowley didn't record. The one that he used for covert ops that the PM or any of the ministers didn't know about. Cowley believed sometimes even the government needed to be held at arm's length for the good of all. His controller had some radical ideas in spite of being dedicated to his country. Doyle often disagreed with Cowley but he trusted him, knew that he had the British Empire close to his heart. 

The number rang twice. 

_"Yes?"_ Cowley said. 

"Sir?" 

There was a pause. _"Doyle."_

"Yes, sir." 

Cowley didn't waste words or time. _"You've been set up by a master."_

"Terrific," Doyle said, his heart pounding. "I need to hear all of it." 

_"Willis wants your head on a pike outside of The Tower. He believes in old fashioned justice."_

Doyle closed his eyes and the image of his head, eyes opened, mouth agape, filled his vision. He shivered and opened his eyes. "Sir, I didn't do this. Any of it." 

_"While I believe you, 4.5, the evidence is not in your favour. The blood in your flat is human. It's the same type as the latest victim. It will take some time for the lab to match it. I'm sure Bodie's told you that we have the knife that was used in last night's murder. It was found in your vehicle."_ Cowley paused. _"More evidence was uncovered in your flat."_

"The blood wasn't enough?" Doyle snapped. "Sorry, sir. What did they find?" He closed his eyes and held onto the door frame. 

_"In a tin of curry they found the earrings, Doyle. Five of them."_

"What?" Doyle shouted so loudly that Bodie's head came up and he stared across the pavement at Doyle. Doyle waved him off. He had to think. Having Bodie breathing down the back of his neck would only distract him. "How in the fuck did they get into my flat?" 

_"Willis is of the opinion that you put them there, of course. He has convinced the proper authorities to issue an arrest warrant for you."_

Doyle paused for a long moment before he asked, "What do you believe?" 

Cowley sighed. _"What I believe is immaterial. What is important is what is admissible as evidence in Her Majesty's court. The knife and earrings are admissible, found in a lawful search."_

"There are other things as well." 

_"Aye. The pocket knife and the pen."_

"Pen?" 

_"Yes, there was, of all ridiculous things, a ball point pen with your finger prints on it. Found at the fourth crime scene."_

Doyle's entire body shuddered. The pen. The bloody pen! The one he lent to Phillips that first day of investigating. "I've got to go, sir. Thank you." He slammed down the phone before Cowley could say another word. He surged out of the phone box, stopped, turned back, and punched in Gently's number. When he answered, Doyle fed the coins into the slot with trembling fingers. 

_"Hello."_

"Sir, it's Doyle. We're on our way." 

_"All right. I have interesting information."_

"Thirty minutes with traffic. Cheers." Doyle hung up, his hand shaking. "Bodie. Bodie." He ran to the cab and threw himself into the back seat. He grabbed Bodie's sleeve. "Cowley said they found my pen at the fourth murder scene. My bloody pen!" 

Bodie's eyebrow rose. "Eh?" 

"Remember at the first scene when Phillips asked for me pen? Remember?" he said, excitement bubbling up. "Phillips! He's the one. Think about it. He has access. He took my pen. He found my knife. He works for Cowley, has access to HQ!" 

Bodie turned to face Doyle, his eyes flashing venom. "The dirty bastard. He can get into the files any time he likes. He works all over that building, and Cowley trusts him." Bodie took Doyle's wrist. " _We_ trusted him. I'll kill the prick." 

"He's been with the mob for what? Six or eight years. Why?" Doyle scrubbed at his eyes before he met Bodie's gaze. He saw the fury etched in Bodie's face and body. "I don't understand. I've never done anything to him." 

"He's jealous. You're with me. I know he's got it bad for you." Bodie snapped out each word, his tone clearly telling Doyle that Phillips was dead meat. 

"No, no, that can't be it. Nobody's that sick." Doyle was horrified when his eyes filled. "If that's what his motivation is, then all of this is truly my fault. He killed five innocent women because of me." 

Bodie opened his door. In a second, he was in the back with Doyle. He grabbed Doyle's upper arms and dug his fingers into his muscles. 

Doyle wrapped his own hands around Bodie's shoulders. He'd have bruises from Bodie's rough handling. He deserved them, his traitorous brain told him. _His fault. His fault..._

"You are not responsible," Bodie said savagely. "You are not God. You can't dictate other people's actions. You keep talking like this and I'll hit you so hard, your brain will rattle. I'll knock sense into you if it kills you." 

Bodie tightened his hold and for a moment, Doyle thought Bodie would backhand him across the face. He closed his eyes. 

"Do you understand?" Bodie's tone was clipped, angry. Beyond angry, Doyle could feel the rage boiling off him. "Look at me, for Christ's sake." 

Slowly Doyle opened his eyes. "All right," he finally said, but he wasn't truly convinced he wasn't responsible. If he hadn't known Phillips, or hell, hadn't joined CI5, none of this would have happened. Five women would be alive. They were mothers, daughters, aunts, sisters, lovers... All dead because he lived and breathed. 

"Say it." Bodie held onto Doyle as if his life depended on it. "Say it, damn you." 

"You're such a prick. All right! I'm not responsible for other people's actions." Doyle shouted. "Christ, Bodie, I've said the words but-" 

Bodie cut him off viciously. His lip curled in disgust. "But if you hadn't been born, nothing bad would have happened in the fucking world. The war in Vietnam was your fault. Oh, wait, Korea too. You were alive then. That's your fault as well. What else?" Bodie screwed up his nose and mouth. "Tommy. He was killed because of you. So was Tony and Benny and-"

"All right!" Doyle cried, shoving Bodie away. "Damn it to hell. Just... stop. I get it." 

"You have an all too high opinion of your place in this fucked up world, Ray. We do what we can. We save who we can and we pray we're alive at the end of the day so the next day we can do it all again." Bodie released Doyle and slumped back against the seat, and Doyle could see the fight leeching out of his partner. "I'll tell you this, mate. I'm tired of it all. I deserve a few days of peace and quiet and so do you." 

Doyle snorted derisively. "A few days? A week, at the least." 

Bodie stared at Doyle until Bodie blew out a noisy breath, part resigned grunt, part annoyed snort. "Two weeks is my bottom line. After this mess is done with, we take off for two weeks. Somewhere even Cowley can't find us. We talk, really talk, and make some big decisions. Deal?" He held out his hand. 

Doyle took it and wrapped his other hand around both of their clenched ones. "Deal." 

"Gently will kill us," Bodie said, looking at his watch. "We're late again." 

"Not making a good impression, eh?" 

"Me? I always make a good impression. You, however-" 

Doyle pulled Bodie's cap down over his nose. "Drive, Jeeves. And be quick about it." 

Bodie did as ordered. 

\---------------------------------

"Sorry, sir," Doyle said as soon as Gently opened the door. Gently gave him a look that Doyle read as annoyed tolerance. Embarrassed, he muttered another apology. 

Bodie followed close to Doyle, his hand brushing the centre of Doyle's back as they went into the lounge. "We've been up to our necks discovering we've got our very own Judas."

"Ah, yes," Gently said, waving the men into seats. "That is truly distressing. Tea?"

Doyle rubbed his upper lip. "Got anything stronger?" 

Gently smiled. "Of course." He looked at Bodie. "Would you mind?" he asked. "Glasses and a good bottle of whisky on the sideboard." 

Bodie licked his lips and rubbed his hands together. "Not at all." 

He moved so quickly to the drinks table that Doyle was sure he'd break a toe. 

"So," Gently said, "Judas. I take it you've discovered a traitor in the ranks." 

"Yeah, Phillips," Doyle spat out. Even saying the man's name left a bad taste in his mouth. 

"Phillips? Is that the name he's using?" Gently took the glass Bodie handed him. "Cheers." He took a small swallow. 

Bodie gave Doyle his drink and sat close to his partner on the settee. Their thighs brushed and Doyle was comforted having his partner near. "That's the rat who's been planting evidence against me. Bodie and I went back over all the facts and he's the one. We're sure of it." 

Gently nodded. "I was able to find out that Pennywell had another child, apparently legally this time. Calling in favours from The Yard got me the mother and child's name but past that, I didn't find any current information regarding the woman and her son." 

"Son?" Doyle sat up, his hand clenched around the glass. "Son... Holy Mother of God, I have a brother?" 

"Abel had a brother," Bodie said philosophically, "and look where it got him." 

"We're doing a lot of Bible thumping, eh?" Doyle asked. "Judas, Cain and Abel." He turned to Gently. "We'll find her and we'll get Phillips one way or the other." 

"Sarah Brown," Gently said. "A common name, and so is the son's. John Brown." 

"Marvellous," Doyle said, sighing. 

Bodie banged his knee into Doyle's. "We'll find her. We know where he is so..." 

"Our case has to be air tight. We have to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Phillips is setting me up. Enough so that even that arsehole Willis sees the right of it," Doyle said firmly. 

"We will." 

Gently finished his drink. "Or die trying, if I read you two lads correctly." 

"Yes, sir," Bodie said. He drank the last of his whisky and put the glass on the coffee table. "Thank you, sir." 

"Thanks," Doyle said. "Very much. You've been a big help." He stood up. Gently started to rise. "No, sit. We'll let ourselves out." 

Gently held out his hand. "Come for tea when this is settled." 

"I'd like that, sir." Doyle shook Gently's hand, as did Bodie. 

"Sir," Bodie said. On the way to the cab, he said, "He does remind me of you, especially the eyes." 

"Thanks, I suppose. Not sure I like you being attracted to another bloke." 

Bodie opened his door. "Didn't say I was attracted. I was just noticing. I am a trained investigator." 

"Berk." At the cab, he asked, "What now? Should we call Cowley? Have him nick Phillips?" 

Bodie chewed on his lower lip. If it weren't so sad, Doyle would have laughed because now Bodie was on the other side of the argument. "For what? We don't have any proof that Phillips is behind this. We need solid evidence against the bastard. Enough that he'll be away for good, not just booted out of the mob." 

"Cowley could run Brown's name through the computer. You and me tracking down this Sarah Brown with a son John on our own could take days, hell, months. I'll bet there are hundreds in London alone." Doyle opened the passenger door. "I'm sitting in the front seat. I hate being the passenger. Makes me feel like you're doing all the work." 

Bodie got into his seat. "Aren't I?" 

"Arse." 

"Cheers." Bodie started the cab and drove, turning into a quiet park. He stopped beside a large oak tree. "Phone box back on the corner." Doyle gave him a sly grin. "This time I'll put me own change into the phone." He got out and walked quickly back a few hundred yards. Doyle watched from over the seat. Bodie got into the phone box and closed the door. He could see Bodie writing something and after about ten minutes, he exited the box and trotted back down the asphalt path to the cab. 

"Cowley is in the hot seat. Willis and the PM are breathing down his neck to bring you in. They think I'm helping you get out of the country," Bodie said, turning the key in the ignition. The motor roared to life. Bodie pulled out and manoeuvred the cab through the park and out an exit on the nearest busy road. "Apparently, if you're not in custody in short order they're holding Cowley accountable. Could affect his job." Bodie stopped at a traffic signal. "Here." 

Doyle took the paper. "Does he want me to give meself up?" 

"He said to soldier on." 

"All right." Doyle scanned the paper. "Six names, but only four addresses." 

"In spite of the common names, only six women fit the age and had sons. Two are AWOL and four came up in the database search." 

"We can do four." 

"In totally different parts of the city. Let's split them up." 

"It would be faster, but I don't like it. You need backup." 

Bodie drove for five or six minutes until another red light stopped their progress. He gave Doyle an amused glance. "As if you don't." 

Doyle smirked at the statement but admitted, "I need you." 

"You romantic bastard." Bodie took a left turn. "Let's get back and get another motor. The quicker we do this, the quicker you can be cleared." 

"The quicker we can decide what do to about us and this mob-" An annoying car horn blared, making Doyle's heart thump. After a moment, he breathed out slowly. "...and what to do about bloody London." 

"True," Bodie said quietly, and concentrated on the heavy early evening traffic. 

The drizzle made driving more adventurous. The other drivers sharing the road seemed to take the slick streets as an invitation to do stupid things, like drive too fast or make turns from the incorrect lane, not to mention driving in the dark without headlights. Horns blasted continually, and emergency vehicles trying to reach crash sites made navigating London's roads even more fun than usual. The oncoming car and bus headlights dancing off the windscreen, refracted by the water rivulets into off colour bands, made Doyle's head ache and his eyes burn. Time dragged on, making him more exhausted with each passing minute. He recognised that the lethargy was of his own making. He was letting everything get to him. Annoyed with himself, Doyle closed his eyes and dozed. 

Doyle woke when Bodie stopped the cab and got out. He blinked the sleep from his eyes as Bodie lifted the roller door. Sliding over, Doyle drove the cab inside, then turned off the engine. He got out, bending his back, stretching his arms high. 

"I need a quick piss and a coffee." Bodie plugged in the kettle and trotted off to the loo. 

Doyle got out cups. He added instant coffee, powdered milk and sugar to both cups. The kettle whistled; he prepared both coffees. Bodie came back, wiping his hands on his trousers. 

"Ta," Bodie said, taking a drink. 

Doyle sipped his own coffee, enjoying the warmth that spread through his body. He closed his eyes as he drank. 

"Hungry?" 

"Nah." 

"I am." Bodie tore into a packet of biscuits and munched through a half dozen Cadbury's in record time. 

Doyle took one and ate two bites before he held it out to his partner. Bodie took it and it disappeared down his gob in a flash. "Cretin." 

Bodie grinned. Doyle feigned a grimace when Bodie bared his chocolate coated teeth. Amused, Doyle choked when he snorted coffee. Damned Bodie. He had a way of keeping Doyle entertained and grounded even in the worst of times. 

"Take the cab. Here," Bodie handed over some cash. "Fill it up in case we need it later on. I'll take the Cortina." 

Doyle nodded, shoving the notes into his pocket. "I'll do the two North of the river.." 

"I reckon we'll need a couple of hours so let's say we'll rendezvous back here at 2100." 

Doyle headed for the cab. 

"Oi! You sure you're all right?" Bodie asked, peering at Doyle intently. 

"Yeah. Why?" 

"Because you're not following the usual procedures. Wait a sec." Bodie opened a cardboard box. He pulled out two r/ts, checking to be sure they were fully functional. "Here. We can't risk using CI5 equipment. Keep it on band 55. It should be just us." 

"Sorry," Doyle said. 

"No need. I understand." Bodie ruffled Doyle's hair when he handed him his r/t. "Call me if you need me." 

"2100. See you then." Doyle gave Bodie a wan smile. 

"Don't speak to any strange men." 

"And you stay out of the pubs." 

\------------------------------

Forty-five wasted minutes later, Doyle drove the cab too quickly around a corner. The ungainly vehicle slide sideways on the rain coated tarmac. He spun the wheel to control the skid. The cab's tyres screeched on the wet pavement. Slamming into a pedestrian walkway sign, it shuddered to a halt. 

"Bloody hell," Doyle muttered, smacking the wheel with the palm of his hand. He closed his eyes and dropped his forehead to the wheel between his clenched hands. "Fuck." 

He had spoken to the first person on his short list of two. She wasn't the Sarah Brown they were looking for. While she did have a son, she was also an immigrant who hadn't arrived in the UK until 1971. She had escaped from Eastern Germany and there was no way her son had been fathered by Pennywell.

Frustrated, Doyle had let his attention wander and here he was, sitting along side the roadway, annoyed with himself and with the world in general. Life wasn't fair, he knew, but for once, he wished he could wave a magic wand in order to make this entire mess disappear. He wanted his life back. 

The beeping of his r/t brought Doyle out of his fugue. 

"Doyle." 

"Any luck?" Bodie's voice was a welcome sound. 

"Nah. You?" 

"One down. One to go." 

"Yeah, me too." 

"Well, hurry up then. I'm starving and I want to go home." 

"Whine, whine, whine. We don't have a home at the moment." 

"I want you in bed, any sort of bed, naked and begging for my touch. I've got an air mattress that will do the trick." 

"Bodie, Christ, don't." Doyle was tired but he still felt his body respond. He tamped down his response to his partner's words. 

"What? I'm a red blooded male who wants to get his hands on his lover. Call me when you're on your way back." 

"You do the same," he said sincerely. 

"Out." 

Doyle stared at the r/t, smiling. Bloody Bodie. God he loved that arrogant sod. He pocketed the r/t, looked around, and pulled back into traffic. He wound through quiet neighbourhoods. When he approached the second address, he slowed down, trying to pick out the correct house in the dark. Doyle passed the residence to check it out. After a few hundred yards, he had enough room to turn around; he headed back, keeping his pace slow. Nothing seemed amiss so he began to search for a parking spot. After a few fruitless minutes of searching, he double parked and set the emergency flashers. If somebody hit the cab, so be it. 

Doyle hurried up the path of 47 Linacre Road and knocked. A woman answered. She was in her fifties, had greying brown hair and pale brown eyes. Smartly dressed in a business suit with stockings and low heels, she looked like a working woman. "Sarah Brown?" 

"Yes. Who's asking?" 

"Doyle." He retrieved his ID, inwardly cringing. He wasn't on official business but he was in desperate need of information. As he pocketed the identification folder, his r/t beeped. "Excuse me." He turned away, flicking the button. "Bodie?" he asked softly, surprised to hear from his partner so soon.  
Static was all he heard. "Bodie?" he repeated. 

_"Doyle!"_ Bodie's tone was rough, harried, anxious. 

"Bodie!" Doyle waited and waited. Fear coursed through him. "Bodie, come in." He called several times, with no success. "Sorry," he said to the woman. Turning, he raced back to his cab. In the driver's seat, he floored the accelerator. "Bodie!" Doyle kept trying the r/t to no avail. "Shit." He shoved it between his legs to keep it close at hand and put both hands on the wheel. 

The cab wasn't the ideal vehicle for a quick run across town. It lumbered around corners. It tended to slide sideways when he tried to coax more speed from it. Bodie was in trouble. He had to be. The way he'd cried, "Doyle", then went silent made Doyle's blood run cold. Instinct told him to hurry. 

"Lucerne Mews," Doyle muttered, recalling the second address Bodie was checking out. "That has to be ..." He cut off all thoughts that the last address was where Bodie had walked into some sort of trouble, a trap. The thought that Phillips might have Bodie made Doyle's stomach clench with fear. He broke into a cold sweat in spite of the chill in the air and held onto the steering wheel as if his life depended on it. Phillips might not be a trained agent but he could have somehow got the drop on Bodie. He cranked up the heating. At the sound of a horn blasting alongside the cab, Doyle slowed a fraction. He caught the flash of a lorry's tyre. To avoid being smashed, he cranked the wheel to the left. Not wasting the energy to swear, he bit his lower lip and after a few hundred feet, accelerated again, swerving around cars, taxis and lorries, driving far too dangerously for the condition of the wet roads. He didn't care. He had to get to Bodie. Phillips would kill Bodie for the pleasure of watching his blood run into puddles on the ground. 

It took twenty-six agonising minutes to make it to Lucerne Mews. He parked the cab in the middle of the road and raced up the steps to the door of number 24. Gun pulled, safety off, Doyle noticed that it was ajar. He leaned back against the wall beside the door. After a calming deep breath, he pushed it open slowly with an outstretched hand. It swung inwardly without a sound. Listening intently, Doyle heard small scratching noises and somebody crying. On cat's feet, he entered, a ghost wafting down the corridor. He cautiously looked around the door frame. 

An older woman dressed in a flowered skirt and green jumper was on her knees, picking up something from the floor. Framed photographs were strewn about. A chair was overturned. A flowered china teapot, along with several cups and saucers, lay smashed on the carpeting. 

Doyle pointed his gun. "Where's Bodie?" he demanded. 

The woman looked up with wide hazel eyes. She screamed. Doyle grabbed her arm, pushing her into the sofa. "Shut up! Where's Bodie?" His eyes flicked around the room. One of the photographs caught his attention. "Goddamn it!" He snatched up the picture. Stared. His blood ran cold. "Is this your son?" He held the framed picture in front of her face. She nodded, tears streaking her face. "Where is he?" Doyle ordered. 

"He's gone!" she said, weeping loudly. 

"Where?" The woman cried on. Doyle's temper was frayed. It was all he could do to keep himself from slapping the stupid cow. "Where the fuck is your son?" 

"I don't know," she whined. "He hit that man and took him away! I don't know!" 

"Christ. Where would he go? Come on, think!" Doyle shook her arm roughly, too scared to be patient or kind. "Where?" 

"I don't know!" she screamed, spittle flying from her mouth. 

Doyle moved away from her, disgusted. Glass crunched under his feet. He was getting nowhere here. He had to find Bodie. Without another word, he ran from the room and out of the house. He got back into the cab, thinking furiously on what his next step would be, when the r/t beeped. He threw the photograph on the seat beside him and dug the r/t from his inside jacket pocket. 

"Bodie!" Doyle cried. "Where-?" 

_"He's not doing very well,"_ said the man. 

"I'm going to kill you myself," Doyle cried. "If you him hurt-" Before he could complete his threat, his promise, the caller interrupted in a cold voice. 

_"Let's have some fun. The old Somerset warehouse, Greenland Dock. Come alone."_

"I want to talk to Bodie," Doyle demanded. "Now." 

The man laughed coldly. _"Of course. I do believe he's still capable of making some kind of noise."_

Doyle closed his eyes. Noise, not words? The next sound was a cry of pain followed by a scream. Bodie! "You're dead." 

No-one answered. He'd cut off the connection. Doyle tossed the r/t onto the seat beside him and started the engine. He drove with more concentration than before, mindful of avoiding any trouble. Cold determination his guide. His hands on the wheel were icy; his mind clear. He should be angry or upset. Instead, he cut off his feelings. "Concentrate on driving," he hold himself. "Get to Bodie." He also told himself that this wasn't a suicide mission nor was it a search and destroy. He was lying. 

He would sacrifice himself to save Bodie. 

He would kill this man if it was the last thing he did. Either scenario was all right with him. Doyle spared a glance at the photograph he'd put on the seat. The wide brown eyes looked innocent. A smile played on the full lips. The hair was long and flopped down over his forehead. It appeared to have a tendency to curl. He did not wear glasses. He was young, close to Doyle's age, perhaps a year or two younger. 

It was not Arthur Phillips. That had been the biggest shock when Doyle had first seen the face peering out of the photograph. He felt as if he'd been attached to electrodes and hit with cold water. His entire body sizzled with fear and anger. His blood boiled through him. His emotions shut down. That face didn't belong to Phillips. In spite of the good case he and Bodie had made against their fellow CI5 employee, they had been wrong. 

The nice looking face that grinned from the family portrait belonged to Robert Porter. Now Doyle knew. It all fit, the knife, the pen, the earrings. Porter was Pennywell's son. 

His sodding half brother. 

Life was not fair nor kind or pleasant. Porter had Bodie. Doyle had no doubt Bodie would be dead by the time he got to him. Tonight Doyle would kill his own flesh and blood. Ice coated his heart. 

Doyle would enjoy destroying the bastard. 

\---------------------------

It was raining steadily by the time Doyle pulled the black cab alongside the disused warehouse. No sense in trying a stealth approach: Porter knew Doyle would come. Still, once out of the cab, Doyle rechecked his equipment. The 9mm was in its holster. He had his .38 tucked into the top of his boot. Two extra clips of ammo, plus the Swiss army knife Bodie had given him was resting in his inner jacket pocket. He didn't bother with the r/t. Satisfied he was as kitted out as well as he could be, he wiped the rain from his eyes. The main door was a dark gaping maw. 

When Doyle slipped inside, he pressed his back to the wall beside the door, giving his eyes a chance to adjust. In the blackness, he saw a thin stream of light along the floor on the far side of the huge space. A closed door. He was surprised that there was electricity in the old warehouse but he didn't have time to wonder how Porter had accomplished that. He had more important tasks to complete. 

Doyle had no idea what obstacles lay in wait but it appeared that the path to the door was clear. Cursing his idiocy, he went back to the cab and dug into the boot for a torch. He smirked at himself. His own vision of charging in, gun spurting death, and he himself dying in a blaze of glory was replaced by his sense of self-preservation and his fervent desire to save Bodie. He would go in cautiously. Scope out the place. Find Bodie. Rescue him and kill Porter. Slowly if possible, and with a bullet to the temple if he must. 

The torch came to life when he turned it on. He sent up a silent prayer of thanks that the batteries weren't dead. In fact, the light was so bright that he covered it with his hand to mask his movements. He doubted Porter would shoot him with a rifle, wasn't his way, apparently. He liked killing up close and personal. But Doyle reckoned there was no sense making himself a target. Back at the doorway, he eschewed the direct path, instead going to his right and keeping to the wall as much as possible until he wound his way to the closed door. Gun in hand, safety off, he reached for the handle. Expecting a loud screech, it was silent as it opened inwardly. The overhead lights that had flooded the room went out immediately. 

Doyle didn't have time to register what was in the room. He hurriedly turned off the torch and leaned back against the outer wall, using it for protection. His heart thudded against his ribs and the pounding of his blood sounded like the roar of a huge waterfall in his ears. He considered rushing into the room using the light of the torch but without knowing the layout that could be a suicide mission. He had to find Bodie first. 

Suddenly, a light flashed on inside the room, showing the dirt and grime on the scarred tile floor next to Doyle's shoes. He waited, making himself breathe slowly. He pocketed the torch and held his gun with both hands. Leaning the barrel against his shoulder, he took in a deep breath, slowly exhaled and risked peering around the door frame once more. He expected to hear the snap of a gun shot in spite of dismissing the idea of a sniper shot a few minutes earlier. That's what he would have done. He berated himself instantly. Porter wasn't Doyle; Doyle wasn't Porter. He didn't torture people. If he had to kill, he did it as efficiently as possible. Porter had no such compunction. 

Holding his breath, Doyle looked around. Not only was he not attacked, it seemed that he was being invited in. Not one to ignore an invitation, he gasped when he saw what had obviously been laid out for his benefit. 

The room was in darkness but for two stage lamps that shone brightly. One of the lights was canted to display a body. 

"Holy Christ," he said softly. "Bodie." 

Bodie hung by a rusty chain that was wrapped around his wrists and attached to something outside of the cone of lamplight. Doyle was horrified. He couldn't help staring. Blood ran down Bodie's arms, dark and red, streaking his skin. His arms were pulled tightly together, forcing his head forward. His chin rested against his chest; he looked dead. In the harsh light, the blood was a garish red/black colour. Doyle stared at his partner, his lover, fearing that he'd come too late. It was after a long moment that he finally saw Bodie's chest move as he breathed, albeit much too slowly. Unconscious. _Only._

The second light was set high up on some sort of metal stand, pointing down. It cast its light on a woman's body lying on an Oriental style carpet. She was bound, gagged and blindfolded. Thankfully, she was clothed and he didn't see any blood on her. Now that his heart had stopped pounding so loudly, he could hear her quiet sobs combined with her growing inability to cry and breathe at the same time. He couldn't hear anything from Bodie. Not a good sign. 

The urge to charge into the room, to Bodie's side, swamped him. He gathered his muscles, ready to launch himself when the skin on the back of his neck bristled and goose flesh broke out on his arms. _Danger! Stop. Think. Plan._ It took an inordinate amount of effort to pause; to listen not to his first impulse but to his instincts. So far, he'd been allowed to stand and look, unchallenged. There had to be a reason for it, and he had to understand what it was. 

"Come in," said a man's voice. 

It was tinny, as if from a set of cheap loud speakers. It echoed in the room in such a way that Doyle couldn't pinpoint the origin. "Where are you?" Doyle called out. He moved out of the doorway into the room, making sure the wall was at his back. 

"Shall we chat?" the voice asked, sarcasm dripping thickly. 

"Show yourself, you fucking coward!" 

"I'm not stupid enough to make myself a target, brother." 

Christ, brother. The man called him brother. Doyle swallowed. He couldn't admit to himself that this man, this piece of rubbish, was related to him. That _he_ was related to both Porter- or Brown or whatever the hell he called himself, and to Arthur Pennywell. He wasn't like these two men. He was an agent of Her Majesty's government and he protected people. He had a lover he cared about. He was a good person. 

With a sigh, Doyle wished he could believe the last bit. Was he a good person? He'd killed- _Not the time. Focus!_

Doyle studied the darkness behind the stage lights. Porter had to be close since he could see Doyle. Where? A loft area or upper floor? The stage lights didn't cast much illumination past their focal points. Maybe Porter had a rifle, waiting to take a shot. No, he could have shot Doyle already. He enjoyed being up close and personal when he killed. He'd want to sink his knife into Doyle. So what was he planning? 

Anger flooded Doyle. He wasn't up for games. He took another look around to imprint what he could see into his brain before he retreated. Out in the main area, he once again put the wall between him and the staged room. He needed to think. 

After wiping each of his sweating palms on his trousers, he put his head back and closed his eyes. The image of his partner flashed before his eyes. Bodie had been stripped of his shirt and vest, and Doyle had seen gashes on his chest. He remembered Bodie's scream and knew that Porter had made one of the wounds while Doyle had been listening on the r/t. He had to move quickly before Bodie died of not only the blood loss but of suffocation from his deadly position. And the woman. Her breathing was compromised as well. _Think,_ Doyle told himself. _What is he doing? Where exactly is he? What does he want?_ Out of range. That was a given. To kill, obviously. Was there something that he wanted enough to give up this madness? 

Doyle reckoned that Porter wanted to play with him in a literal sense. This was a game to him. The way Bodie and the girl were displayed. The stage lights. The way he had been led to the room and had been allowed to see inside. Porter was issuing an invitation to come and join in, see what could or would happen. Granted, Doyle didn't know the rules of this particular game or what would determine the winner and the loser. The last man standing, more than likely. Doyle considered his options. He was quick, smart and agile. Porter wasn't a trained agent. Doyle could win this sick game. 

With sweat trickling down his neck and under his collar, Doyle was ready. He was going to change the course of this disaster and he was taking charge or die trying. 

"Porter!" Doyle called. "Give yourself up! The lads will be here in minutes." 

"You're lying! I know you're on the run. Nobody knows where we are!" 

Shit. So he wasn't stupid. "I called in my location before I came in, now give it up!" 

There was a pause. Maybe Porter was considering this idea, mulling over if Doyle were lying or not. "Come in and get me!" 

Doyle centred himself with a yoga mantra. It wasn't easy but when had he and Bodie ever had it easy? _Get on with it._ he ordered himself. He closed his eyes, steadied his breathing, lowered his heart rate, and walked into the room. 

In the stage light, Doyle could see that Porter had moved in and picked up the woman. He was now using her as a shield. He peered over her shoulder, keeping his body well behind hers. He had one arm wrapped high around her neck, stretching her head back so that her throat was exposed. Porter held a knife to her pale skin, pressing it directly across her trachea. Doyle knew how painful it was being held in that position. She would slowly suffocate if Porter didn't slice her open first. 

"Let her go," Doyle ordered, taking aim at Porter. 

"Go on, big man. Shoot. Let's see how good you really are," Porter taunted. 

"You don't have to do this." Doyle took a step forward. 

"Yes I do. It's in my blood." Porter laughed coldly. "It's in yours also." 

Doyle stared at Porter. He was a young man who looked so utterly normal. His eyes glistened with intelligence but behind the spark of life, Doyle believed he saw evil mixed with madness. He'd seen enough nutters in his day to recognise one. Porter was a first class nutter. 

The room was fairly quiet, far from the noise of traffic. He could hear Bodie's laboured breathing off on his right, a few yards away. He grimaced. Bodie was in trouble. His lungs were being compromised with each passing second. It took a great deal of willpower to pull his focus from his partner and listen again. The woman was breathing harshly from her nose but because she'd been crying she was having trouble breathing. Porter's arm contributed to her suffering. Doyle knew she didn't have much time. He was her only hope. 

Doyle used every ounce of training that Macklin had beat into him to force himself to remain calm. It wasn't easy when all he wanted to do was kill Porter with his bare hands. He couldn't give into his wild desires. He had to do what was right. Taking in a deep quiet breath, Doyle slowly exhaled. 

"Why are you doing this?" 

"You're joking," Porter said, laughing. "Oh, right. You didn't know about me. I almost forgot." 

His tone told Doyle that he hadn't forgotten a thing. He was gloating. 

"I didn't know about you," Doyle insisted. "I didn't even know about me." Shit. He hadn't meant to say those words; hadn't meant to give Porter anything to use against him. 

Porter laughed coldly. "I reckoned that was the case. I wish I had had that benefit. Unfortunately, me mum liked to remind me of who my old man was, and what she gave up for me." 

"How did you find out about me?" Doyle asked, dearly wanting that information. He was annoyed that Porter had the knowledge about their relationship before he had. 

"You really want to know?" Porter asked, staring at Doyle, obviously studying him. 

Doyle shrugged, tried to look unconcerned. "Whatever you like." 

Porter grinned widely, a fake smile that stretched his lips. "You're lying. You're dying to hear every single detail. I'll give you one little bit of information to think on: you made the A Squad. Cowley told me I wouldn't even make a B Squad agent. Told me that two weeks ago. Not in me blood, eh?" He giggled, a cruel, hollow sound. "But otherwise, I think I'll leave the rest to your imagination. Give you something to think about on those long, cold lonely nights when you're alone without him." He tipped his head towards Bodie. "You can wonder if there was anything you could have done differently to have saved him." 

Doyle was tired of the game. He didn't have time to worry about Porter's psychological problems. He had more important things to do. He had to get Bodie free. His partner and the woman needed medical attention if they were to survive. "Now what?" Doyle asked, taking another step. 

"You must think I'm bloody stupid. You keep moving closer. I suggest you stop." Porter drew the knife across the woman's throat. Blood ran from the cut. It wasn't deep from what Doyle could see but it had hurt because the woman began to thrash. Porter easily lifted her from the ground by her neck. She bucked weakly, and from behind the gag, she tried to scream. While he watched, her movements began to slow. She convulsed weakly. 

"Porter!" Doyle cried. "Stop!" 

"She's not dead yet, Agent 4.5. It's up to you which one lives. This bitch or that nancy boy." 

"I'm not choosing." Doyle took another step forward, ready to fire the moment he had a clear shot. 

"Yes, you are," Porter said softly. He sliced the woman's throat again. This time blood spurted from the wound. He grinned. "Pick one. You may have whichever you chose." 

Doyle didn't hesitate. He fired, shooting out both stage lights. Then he launched himself at Porter and his hostage. He slammed into them. Porter let out a surprised grunt when both the woman and Doyle piled on top of him. Doyle pulled the woman aside and reached for Porter. The man was quick. He was already scrambling away from Doyle's grasp. Doyle knew he had to make a decision. It took only a second to decide to save both Bodie and the woman. He would have to let Porter go. 

"Fuck!" Doyle cried, grabbing the torch from his pocket. He needed light. On his feet, he took a few precious seconds to find the switches for the overhead lights. He slammed them up. The entire space was flooded with light. Doyle didn't waste a second of his precious time. He found the anchor to the chain holding Bodie up. He pulled it from its mooring. Mindful of Bodie's condition, he lowered his partner to the ground as gently as possible. 

Doyle couldn't spare the time to check on Bodie. He had to pray that Bodie could breathe easier now as he raced over to the woman, yanking off his belt as he ran. He slid to his knees and pulled off her blindfold. Using it as a bandage, he pressed it to the cut on her throat and wrapped the belt around it. He slipped the buckle together and tightened it until it was holding the makeshift tourniquet. Doyle looked down at the woman. She blinked up at him, her eyes wide with fear and pain. Doyle touched her shoulder. 

"You'll be all right," Doyle said reassuringly. He leapt to his feet. At Bodie's side, he gently laid him flat on his back with his chained hands lying on his stomach. Doyle checked Bodie's mouth to be sure it was clear. He put his ear to it. Nothing. 

"Shit," Doyle muttered, his own heart pounding in fear. Bodie wasn't breathing. He laid a hand on Bodie's chest. After a moment, he was relieved when he felt Bodie's heart beating sluggishly. 

"No, no, no," Doyle said roughly, tipping Bodie's head back and pinching his nose. He covered Bodie's mouth with his own and breathed in twice. He waited for a few seconds before he repeated his actions. "Come on, Bodie. Stay with me." He breathed into Bodie's lungs a fourth time and a fifth. He was just about to start another round when Bodie coughed. It was weak but he was thrilled. "Yes. Yes! Thank God." 

Doyle waited a couple of seconds longer to be sure Bodie was breathing regularly even though he hadn't regained consciousness. Doyle took off his coat and draped it over Bodie before running back to the woman. She was crying softly. To Doyle, it was a welcome sound. He cut her hands and legs free before he wrapped her in the rug to keep her warm. "I'm going for help." 

Doyle had barely got to his feet when he heard the pounding of footsteps. He levelled his weapon at the open doorway leading into the room, ready to defend Bodie and the woman. 

"Stand down, 4.5!" called a familiar voice. 

"Mr Cowley?" Doyle cried. "How- Hurry! We need medics and an ambulance." Questions could wait. Bodie needed help now, as did the poor woman Porter had kidnapped. 

Cowley entered, followed by Anson, Jax and two med ambulancemen. Each medical person took one of the two injured people and began first aid. Doyle went to Bodie's side and fell to his knees, watching intently. While the medics took Bodie's vital signs; they placed an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. Doyle needed to do something so he started to work on the chains wrapped around his partner's wrists. 

Grimacing, Doyle carefully undid the chains. When he pulled the links away, bits of flesh stuck to the metal. Doyle blinked away the tears that sprang to his eyes when he saw the damage to Bodie's wrists. When he'd finished his self-appointed task, the medics cleaned Bodie's wrists, hands and lower arms, and wrapped the wounds with gauze. Doyle was thankful that Bodie hadn't had to suffer through the pain of having rusty metal links of chain pulled from his skin. Moving aside to give the medics more room, Doyle wrapped a hand around Bodie's ankle, watching intently as the men tended his partner. He was furious at Porter for hurting Bodie. He was furious at Porter for killing those innocent women. Cold anger stole his breath away. 

Doyle started when something touched his shoulder. He turned his head quickly, hand already reaching for his gun. 

"Doyle," George Cowley said. He held up his free hand. "Stand down, man. You did good work tonight." 

Doyle didn't respond, only stared at his boss. 

Cowley turned. Over his shoulder he said, "Doyle, with me." 

Doyle hesitated. 

"Ach, he'll be taken care of, man. You know that. Come with me." Cowley turned and hurried out of the room. 

Annoyed, Doyle let out a noisy breath, wondering if this was when he would be arrested. After all, he was in a room with a victim of a stabbing (wrapped in an Oriental rug) and an injured CI5 agent. He could be a rogue agent and a killer. He followed his boss. 

"How did you find us?" Doyle called out. His anger overrode his good sense. The old man could jump off a bridge for all the cared. 

Cowley turned. "Bodie. He's bugged." 

"He is?" Doyle was shocked. "You bugged Bodie!" 

"Settle down, 4.5. Bodie was well aware of it. Ahh, I can tell from your face you didn't know. No matter. It worked." 

"What worked? Damn it, what worked?" Doyle asked harshly. Cowley raised an eyebrow. Doyle also didn't care that he was being disrespectful. He wanted answers. 

"Do you believe I thought you capable of those grisly murders, Doyle? Do you think so little of me after all the time you've been in my organisation? Do you have no confidence in me?" Cowley sounded hurt. 

Doyle didn't know how to answer. No, he honestly hadn't considered the idea that Cowley would have helped him. True, he'd offered assistance over the phone with certain facts. Otherwise, Doyle hadn't thought of Cowley past surrendering to him rather than Willis. Obviously, Bodie had. He sighed, rubbing his face with both hands. "Sorry," he muttered without much grace. He was tired and hungry and sick at heart. 

Cowley peered back into the room in which the medics were loading Bodie and the woman onto trolleys to be taken to the waiting ambulances. He returned his attention to Doyle. "There's somebody here you might wish to speak to." He walked across the warehouse and disappeared out the door without explaining further. "Mind you keep your wits about you." 

After a moment's hesitation, Doyle trotted out after his controller, curious about his comment. Doyle kept his wits about him. Well, generally. He slowed to a walk as he thought about keeping his wits under control. When he got outside, in the headlights of his boss' red Ford was a figure. As Doyle got closer, he saw a man kneeling on the ground, hands cuffed behind him. Murphy stood guard, gun held loosely in his hand. He apparently didn't feel the captive was a danger. Murphy glanced over at Doyle. When Murph casually took half a step back, Doyle took a good look at the kneeling man. 

Recognition set in. Porter! Doyle's heart instantly began to pound. He felt himself flush, blood racing up his face to heat his skin. His hands clenched. 

"Porter, you piece of shit!" Doyle sprinted over to Porter and launched himself at the man, sending him to the ground. 

Porter howled. Doyle punched him in the face again and again, cold satisfaction racing through his veins. 

"Ray!" Murphy shouted. "Enough!" Murph wrapped an arm around Doyle, lifting him off the ground. He pinned Doyle's back against his chest and captured his arms. Murphy said into Doyle's ear, "As much as I'd like to let you kill the bastard, you need him to confess to Willis and MI6. You need your name cleared with all the proper people. I hate it as much as you do but think! Stop fighting me and use your noggin. Porter needs to spill his guts." 

Porter lay on the ground, curled into a ball. He sobbed harshly, letting out the occasional howl of pain. Doyle was close enough to Porter to kick out. His foot connected with Porter's thigh. Porter yelped and tried to scuttle away. Murphy turned Doyle bodily away from Porter. 

Doyle forced himself to relax. "All right!" He let out a rough breath, and patted Murphy's arm. "All right," he repeated, calming more with each passing second. 

"Promise?" Murphy said. "You know even Cowley has to answer to higher ups. So promise me you're finished, because if not, I've always wanted you in my arms," he said teasingly into Doyle's ear. 

"Prat," Doyle said, in control of himself fully. Murphy released him. Doyle straightened his clothing. He glared down at Porter, who whimpered when he saw Doyle standing over him. "Get the filthy coward out of my sight before I do him a favour and end his miserable life." 

Murphy yanked Porter to his feet by his jacket and shoved him into the back seat of Cowley's car. Cowley hurried over. Doyle wondered if Cowley would berate him but his boss merely blinked and opened the driver's door. 

"With me, Murphy. You sit in the back with our guest until he's turned over to MI6." Cowley climbed into the car. Murphy hopped in. 

Doyle stood with his hands in his pockets, watching Cowley's motor until the tail lights disappeared. He trotted over to where the medics had loaded Bodie onto the ambulance. 

"How is he?" 

The medic with a name tag of Mike Riley answered. "He's holding his own. Temp is low but otherwise, he'll be fine as soon as the docs stitch him up, give him a few shots, and he's tucked into a warm bed." 

"Good." He looked down at his partner. Bodie was buried under thick blankets. His eyes were closed but his breathing sounded steady through the oxygen mask. Relief washed over him, along with a deeper exhaustion. Now that Bodie was safe, and Doyle's own name was going to be cleared, he was ready to fall over. He managed to stay upright through sheer stubbornness. It would be embarrassing to fall on his face in public. 

"How about the girl?" he asked. Doyle leaned into the ambulance while Mike secured Bodie's trolley. 

"I didn't work on her so I can't give you details but I heard Sean say she was still breathing when the other lads were putting her into the ambulance." 

"Let's hope for the best, eh?" Doyle pulled himself into the ambulance. There was a jump seat along the wall. He sat in it, putting a hand on Bodie's knee for reassurance.

"Yes, sir." Mike pounded on the panel separating them from the driver. 

\------------------------------------

"Hey." Doyle smiled down at Bodie. He put a hand on Bodie's arm. "You're in hospital." 

One of the A&E personnel was cutting off Bodie's trousers. An IV dripped into his arm. Another medical assistant was preparing the knife wound for suturing. 

"Relax, mate. They've given you some good drugs." 

Bodie blinked slowly. He smiled. "Don't let them cut into any of my tattoos, especially... Princess... whashername." 

"Oh, sure. I'll be extra careful to keep that naked gal pristine." 

Bodie closed his eyes, a faint smile still on his lips. "Ta." He drifted off to sleep. 

Doyle stood back, well out of the way of the staff. He let out a huge sigh of relief and watched his lover sleep. Porter was captured. The woman he'd rescued would live. Bodie was back with him. Sometimes life wasn't as horrible as he thought it was. 

\-----------------------------------

The ringing of the telephone woke Doyle. He hadn't been sleeping well anyway and being startled from a strange dream left him groggy. Bodie lay beside him, still asleep. The tablets the doctor had given him did the trick on the pain. They also knocked him out. The phone rang again. Doyle snagged the receiver, glancing at the clock as he did so: 3:00 am. 

"Doyle.

_"It's Mr Cowley. I've got news."_

"It's the middle of the night. I'm on leave." 

_"Aye, I realise that, 4.5, You will recall that I granted you that leave."_

Cowley's tone was kind, too kind for Cowley. That scared Doyle. If his controller wasn't blasting him for his irreverence, then the news was something Doyle didn't want to hear. 

"What is it?" Doyle asked, his head throbbing. He rubbed at his temples. He'd had a constant headache for days now. Cowley's call ratcheted up the pain. 

_"Porter. He's dead."_

"Dead? How?" Doyle demanded. "I wanted to talk to him! You told me I could speak to him as soon as Willis was finished with his interrogation. What the fuck happened?" 

"Ray?" Bodie asked, his voice groggy. 

"Go back to sleep. It's only Cowley." 

"Hmmm," Bodie muttered, closing his eyes. 

"Sorry. You woke Bodie," Doyle said, not bothering to keep the annoyance from his tone. Also not caring that Cowley had clear evidence that they were sharing a bed. Bugger him if he didn't like it. He could terminate their contracts whenever he liked. 

_"Doyle, I'll not tolerate disrespect. If you wish me to continue, I suggest you moderate your tone."_

Doyle sighed deeply, his headache escalating. He hadn't thought it was possible to feel worse. His eyes and his mouth were dry. After a moment, Doyle licked his lips. It took considerable effort to say, "Sorry, sir." 

Cowley paused. _"Apparently,"_ he explained, _"he was shot while trying to escape."_

"Do you believe that?" Doyle said harshly. "Bloody hell. Did you get to question him at all? What about ..." Doyle stopped. He couldn't go into the whole thing with Cowley about his blood relative and his desire to explore the reasons why Porter had framed Doyle for the murders of five innocent women. He desperately wanted to believe that Porter had other motivations beyond Cowley rejecting him as an agent. Jealousy of Doyle's position with CI5 wasn't a good enough reason to kill. _Not enough of a reason for you, mate,_ he told himself. For Porter, he heard the words Porter had said, but believing them was harder to do. 

Doyle had a lot of questions. He longed to know why Porter had escalated from _merely_ framing Doyle to deciding to kill Bodie. He had no doubt that Porter hadn't wanted he- Doyle- dead; he'd wanted Doyle to suffer. Now Doyle would never really know. He would have to live with the idea that jealousy was the reason. It didn't sit well with Doyle, because he honestly couldn't put himself in Porter's shoes; he couldn't force himself to think like a mad man and to understand how it made sense. 

Doyle's failure to understand irked the hell out of him. 

_"Doyle? Are you there?"_

"Yes. I'm listening." Doyle said again. He chewed on his lower lip and made himself speak evenly in spite of the fact that he wanted to shout in anger at the gods of fucked up shit. 

_"To answer your question: no, I did not have the opportunity to question Porter. I understand that you had valid personal reasons for wishing to speak to the man. I'm sorry you won't have that opportunity."_

Cowley seemed to be sympathetic but Doyle knew better. He'd been in CI5 long enough to know how the game was played. Porter had been a member of CI5. He had survived the vetting process. He'd worked in HQ for about six months. He wasn't agent material but he'd been good enough to be a member of staff. All of this had rankled Cowley. Porter brought disgrace down on Cowley's head. Now he was conveniently dead. Still a disgrace but the organisation was spared the trouble of, and derogatory newspaper coverage during, a trial. 

"That's that, I reckon," Doyle said coldly. No sense wasting any more of his time. He was tired of Cowley and his triple think and CI5 and, and... "Thanks for the information." 

_"Doyle-"_

"I'm still on leave." He was in no mood to be tactful. 

There was a long pause. Doyle could imagine Cowley twirling his eyeglasses, mind racing as he shifted through the proper tactic to use on his agent. He must have decided to let it go for now because he said, _"Aye, so you are. Good night, 4.5."_

"Yeah." He hung up the phone. Good night. What was good about it? 

"Ray, what's going on?" Bodie looked up at Doyle, sleepiness making his eyes heavy and his face relaxed. "What did Cowley want?" 

Doyle got out of bed. "I'm going for a run." 

"Now? It's night or early morning. Come back to bed." Bodie patted the mattress. "You seem to fall into trouble when you go for runs in the dark." 

"I don't... I need space." 

"I didn't realise I was crowding you," Bodie said coolly. 

"You're not." Doyle paused. "Porter's dead." 

"Shit." 

Doyle saw Bodie rouse himself in spite of the meds making his groggy. He hoisted himself up onto his elbow, scrubbed at his eyes. "Listen, Ray, I know you're pissed off. Now you won't get a crack at that bastard. I'm sorry about that, but you have to know neither of those morons were like you. You're a good man." 

"Yeah, right. A good man." Doyle raked his curls. "I don't feel like a good man!" He threw out his arms. "I've been trained by my own government to kill!" 

"No, you've been trained by your own government to protect," Bodie insisted. He struggled to stifle a yawn, and failed. 

"Go back to sleep." 

"Ray, don't go out. We'll talk. Please." 

Doyle felt a lump grow in his throat. Afraid he would start blubbering like a school girl, he ignored Bodie, pulling on track suit bottoms and socks. He laced up his trainers, pulled on a sweat shirt, and tossed a towel around his neck. 

"Ray!" 

Doyle didn't answer. He couldn't answer. Bodie wouldn't understand. He'd tell Doyle to get over it. Or worse, he'd be sympathetic, explain to Doyle what a good bloke he was. How he was a much better man than Porter. How having Arthur Pennywell's blood in his veins didn't affect him; didn't make him a man who could turn evil at any moment. Nobody turned into a monster because he had bad blood in him. A man set his own destiny; made his own decisions. 

Logically, Doyle understood those arguments. Emotionally, in his heart, Doyle hurt. He needed to think. He grabbed his keys, set the locks once he was in the corridor. He hurried down the stairs. 

On the path around the park, he ran and ran and ran but he couldn't escape his demons. 

\---------------------------------

Doyle unlocked the door. He was breathing heavily and in spite of the morning's chill, he was sweating profusely. His track suit bottoms were damp; the vest under his track jacket was wet enough that he could wring out his perspiration. He took a deep breath and slowly released it. Swiping his sleeve across his forehead, he tossed the keys onto the side table. After drinking a glass of water, he went to the bedroom. Bodie was dressed in tan cords, brown boots, a dark brown silk shirt and the corduroy jacket that Doyle liked on him. 

"Morning," Doyle said, stripping as he walked into the room. He pulled the vest over his head and balled it up, tossing it into the laundry basket. "What are you doing?" he asked, watching Bodie stuff some clothing into a duffel. 

Bodie didn't answer. He went into the bathroom and returned with his shaving kit. He added it to the bag and zipped it shut. 

"Are you going to talk to me?" Doyle demanded. A stab of fear knifed him in the gut but he stifled it and let anger replace it. Better to be pissed off than scared. Better Bodie didn't know he was _always_ scared these days. 

"No sense talking any more. I've talked for a week straight and you haven't listened." Bodie didn't meet his eyes. He hefted the duffel and strode past Doyle. 

"Bodie, what the hell?" Doyle followed his partner. "I need space. Time. And I need-" 

"I asked you repeatedly to call Jane, go and see her. One phone call doesn't cut it, mate," Bodie said derisively. 

"It's none of your business," Doyle said coldly. 

"Right. I've received the message loud and clear. Whatever's going on in that messed up head of yours isn't my concern. You want to be alone." Bodie glared at him coolly, all ice and stone. 

"No!" Doyle grabbed his sleeve. "I never said I wanted to be alone. I said I wanted to think." 

"Well, I'm going back to my place. I've got two more days before I'm back at work. I have some thinking to do myself." 

"You can't think here?" 

"No, I can't think here. I can barely breathe here." 

Stunned, Doyle stood mutely, his hands hanging at his side; his heart aching. 

Bodie stared directly into Doyle's eyes before he scanned his body. "Look at you. You've lost a stone in the past few days. How far did you run today?" He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. 

"Run?" Doyle shrugged, rubbing his belly. He had lost weight but he _had_ been exercising. Keeping in shape. "Three miles, maybe four." 

Bodie held his gaze. "Fourteen miles today. Yesterday it was sixteen. The day before that and the day before that, ten, twelve miles." 

"What? No. It wasn't..." Doyle looked away. "How do you know how far I've run?" 

"Followed you. How do you think?" he asked, disgust in his tone. 

Doyle was furious. "It's none of your business." 

"Right." Bodie opened the door. 

Doyle slammed it shut before he could leave. "That's not what I meant! I need to work things out. Running helps." 

"Fine. Running helps. But you're running yourself to death." Bodie crossed his arms. 

"People run long distances all the time," Doyle protested, his tone sounding defensive to his own ears. 

"Sure, with proper training." Bodie looked at Doyle's chest. "They eat properly too. They don't starve themselves and run until their ribs are showing. They don't cut off their partner. They don't refuse to talk to him. They don't slowly kill themselves and expect somebody who cares for them to watch." 

Doyle looked down at himself. He honestly hadn't noticed that he'd lost weight. He'd always been slender. He looked in the mirror and stifled a gasp. He was gaunt, with dark circles around his eyes and sunken cheeks. "I-" He paused, not sure what to say. His head hurt again; he pressed his fingers to his temples. 

"Another headache?" Bodie said. "Marvellous. Well, I'm off. I'm not going to watch you kill yourself." 

"I'm not trying to kill myself!" Doyle shouted, his anger spiking. 

"Why not use a bullet, eh? Too much of a coward? Can't do it quickly and cleanly?" Bodie asked, his tone nasty. Two bright spots of red coloured his cheeks. "I've got better things to do than watch you die piece by piece a day at a time. A funeral settles things quickly." 

Doyle took a step back. Bodie was furious. He'd been at the receiving end of Bodie's anger before but this contempt stole his breath away. He was barely able to speak. "Eh? I'm- No, I'm... not-" 

"Good bye, Ray." Bodie turned the latch, opening the door. Before he closed it, he looked directly at Doyle and to Doyle's surprise, Bodie's eyes were glistening with unshed tears. "I'll always miss you. Miss what we had together." 

When the door closed, Doyle stood rooted to the spot. Miss him? Bodie had said he was going back to his flat. He'd mentioned returning to duty in two days. What was he planning? Doyle chewed on his lower lip. He'd known Bodie for a long time. He understood "Bodie-speak". Bodie wasn't doing what he said he was. Oh, sure, he'd go back to his place. He'd show up at CI5 on Monday. He'd have packed up by then. Bodie would hand Cowley his resignation in person. He had too much integrity to leave without telling the old man; too much respect for Father to dump him without explaining in person. 

"Jesus," Doyle whispered. "Bodie." No, no! He was the one who was leaving Doyle behind. Doyle's first instinct was to run after him. But that horrible sin interfered. Pride made him pause. _Let him go, the traitor,_ his inner voice said. _He doesn't understand. He couldn't._

"Shut up!" Doyle shouted at the empty room, but the words rang true. Bodie didn't understand. He didn't have the same sort of blood in his veins. Bodie didn't have the same conscience as Doyle. He could compartmentalise what he'd done in his life; ignore the bad, enjoy the good. Doyle wasn't like that. Doyle had a conscience. He cared more than Bodie, about everything in life. 

Shoulders slumped, Doyle went to the sofa and fell onto it. He dropped his head back and closed his eyes. He was alone now. Truly alone. It felt horrible. His chest constricted. Doyle rubbed the heel of his hand over his heart. He stood up and crossed the room. At the drinks cabinet, he poured himself a half tumbler of whisky. Doyle took a large gulp. The alcohol burned its way to his stomach. He gagged. 

"Shit!" Doyle flung the glass hard, smashing it into the far wall. Whisky sprayed across the room; bits of glass scattered across the carpet. He looked at the mess he'd made. Stared at the liquid trails on the wallpaper. He felt like crying but instead, he began to chuckle, then laugh. 

My God, he was a moron. A stupid, whining, pitiful moron. Woe is me. He even disgusted himself. He was selfish. Bloody hell. 

_You wanted to think, so think!_

Doyle stared at his hand, flexed it. Remembered using his hand to caress his lover. To pull the trigger. To write. To eat. He was a normal person. He did good things and bad things. Hopefully more good than bad. With a snort at his own idiocy, he turned. The light reflected on one of the picture frames gracing his bookcase. He lifted it, stared at it. It was a photograph of his mum and dad, his Aunt Jane- his real mum- taken about ten years ago. He looked at his younger self staring back. He'd just started with the Met. A neighbour had taken the picture in his parents' front garden. He was in his newly pressed uniform between his mum and dad, with Aunt Jane next to his mum. Jane's smile was huge; pride shown in her face. Doyle blinked, his eyes tearing. 

"Think about her for a change, arsehole. She's the one who suffered. Pennywell ruined her life, not yours." Doyle ran a finger across the familiar faces. He didn't stop the tears that raced down his cheeks. One plopped onto the glass. He wiped it away, swiped at his face with the back of his hand. 

Doyle sat on the sofa still clutching the photograph. He studied it for many minutes, remembering his parents. They'd been firm but fair. He'd rebelled as a teenager, ran the streets until he'd been beaten severely. The four weeks in hospital and three surgeries for his busted face had stomped on his rebellious streak. He found religion, as they say. Studied and got into the police force. Turned his life into something his parents had been proud of. Something Aunt Jane had been proud of. Still was. She'd reminded him often enough of that fact. 

Losing his folks in a car crash six months after he'd joined the Met had been hard. Aunt Jane was at his side the entire time. She was strong and loving and she made a mean trifle. Doyle smiled. He sighed happily, thinking about his parents for the first time in a while. He laid down, the photograph resting on his chest. His fingers caressed the glass. He thought about his life. His eyes grew heavy and before he realised, he'd slipped into sleep. 

"Ray?" Strong arms tugged at him, pulling him close. Wrapped him up in warmth. In love. 

Doyle signed contentedly, burying his face into Bodie's neck. He breathed in the familiar scent of his lover. Doyle wrapped his arms around Bodie and Bodie did the same. They clung to each other for a long while until Doyle woke with a start. He looked around. It was dark outside. He'd slept a long time. It was a good kind of sleep, deep and refreshing, not like the last stretch of nights when strange, unsettling dreams haunted him. Light from the street lamp shown through the curtains, casting the room in shadows. He shivered, still wearing only track suit bottoms. 

"Bodie?" Doyle called, sitting up. The photograph clattered to the floor. He picked it up and gently set it on the coffee table. Chilled, he climbed to his feet. "Bodie?" 

No one answered. It had been a dream. Bodie's arms around him. A sweet, warm, lovely dream. Doyle was alone. 

But not for long. Not if he had anything to say about it. 

Hurrying, Doyle showered. The water cleared his foggy head. He remembered the words he'd said to Bodie earlier. 

"What a prat," he told himself. 

Dressed and in the kitchen, he had a fast meal of toast and tea. Beside the front door, Doyle snatched his coat from the hatstand. He put on his holster and seated his gun comfortably in its place. With his ID in his inner jacket pocket, along with his restored Swiss army knife, he headed out. 

If Bodie thought he was leaving, he'd better reconsider. Doyle loved him. Doyle was a moron. He would find his partner and he would apologise. He would ask Bodie to help him work through his current mess of a life. If he had to, he'd throw himself on the altar of Doctor Ross and let her pick his brain. 

Doyle knew he was not a coward. He would prove it to himself and to his partner. 

Doyle would not let Bodie go. 

Doyle would not let himself go either. 

\----------------------------------

"It's Sunday," Doyle said. "Forty-eight hours left before you're back to the old grind. Today we have plans." 

Bodie glanced up from the newspaper he was reading. He looked at the date, then at Doyle. "Your powers of observation are remarkable. It is indeed Sunday. Happens once a week." 

Doyle sniggered. When Bodie put on his poshest attitude, it was quite amusing. "You're a pillock." 

"Takes one to know one." Bodie grinned at Doyle from his place on the sofa. He had just eaten a large plate of grilled cheese, bacon and tomato sarnies, along with a bag of crisps and a glass of tomato juice. For breakfast. 

"We've got to meet with Ross in an hour," Doyle reminded his partner. "Are you going like that?" he asked, waving a hand at Bodie." 

"She'll love me in me jammies," Bodie said smartly. 

"She'll pick you apart. Find some reason why wearing your nightclothes in public is some sign of childhood regression or some such bollocks." Doyle picked up Bodie's plate and the bag of crisps. He shook out the last few and chewed. 

"Hey! Those are mine!" Bodie reached for the bag he must have thought was empty. 

"Finders, keepers," Doyle sing-songed, going into the kitchen to add Bodie's plate to the washing up. He hummed as he washed and rinsed, putting the plates to drip in the dish rack. "Hey!" he said, surprised when two arms wound around his middle. He turned, folded the dish cloth that he had been using and hung it over a chair back to dry. 

Bodie walked along with his crotch pressed against Doyle's arse, nibbling on his ear. "Ta for the grub." 

"That's the last meal I'm fixing for a week. Your turn starting tonight. You're on cooking duty." 

"Ah, Ray, have a heart! I had eighteen stitches. I'm injured." 

"You've had all the stitches out. You're well. You've got today to enjoy so you'd best make the most of it." 

"How can I make the most of it," Bodie whined, "if you make me go and talk to Ross?" 

"She's coming to HQ especially for us, on a Sunday, so she can give Cowley official word that she's letting you back to work.Tomorrow the doctor signs off on you and Tuesday I might agree to take you back on as me partner." 

"You've missed me the last two weeks." 

"Like a bad case of-" 

Bodie turned Doyle, kissing him soundly. 

Doyle chuckled into Bodie's mouth. He draped his own arms around Bodie's neck and kissed him loudly. "You taste like butter." 

"You used good stuff on my grub. None of that processed crap. Margarine." Bodie said the last word as if it were a curse word. 

Doyle pulled his head back and peered closely at Bodie. "Processed crap? You just consumed bacon and crisps. What about that Swiss roll you ate last night?" 

"The crisps were made from potatoes. I know you read the label and made sure there wasn't anything fake in them. And you bought the Swiss roll yourself from Mrs Turner's bakery. You know she makes everything by hand and wouldn't dream of putting something artificial into her products. 

Busted. Doyle laughed. "You didn't seem to mind that those crisps weren't full of chemicals." 

"As long as they taste good." Bodie kissed Doyle again. "As good as you do right now." He pressed their mouths together, happily humming. 

Doyle smiled against Bodie's mouth. "You taste good too." 

They kissed again and again, tongues dancing and exploring, until Bodie pulled back far enough to card his fingers through Doyle's hair. "We could go back to bed. See what mischief we can get into." 

"I'd like to get into something..." Doyle said suggestively. 

Bodie grinned and waggled an eyebrow. "So let's." He kissed Doyle again. 

"Can't. Ross, remember. Then off to Jane's. I've packed an overnight bag for both of us. She's preparing you a proper tea so we mustn’t be late." 

"At least it's a nice day out. I'm driving." 

"Car or bike?"

"Hmmm." Bodie looked out the window. Doyle followed his gaze. "Sunny. Clear. Warmish. Good weather report for today and tomorrow." He wrinkled his forehead. "Bike."

"Good choice." Doyle grinned, gave Bodie one last kiss and slipped away. "I'll get the helmets and the rucksack." 

"Grab my new gloves." 

"Rather grab you," Doyle muttered. 

"Eh?" 

"Nothing," Doyle called over his shoulder. "Let's hurry. I'm tired of being inside. I want the wind in my hair." 

"You want to hold onto me tightly, that's all." 

Doyle smiled. "That too." 

\---------------------------------

Doyle closed his eyes. The wind whipped around him, brushing his cheeks. He tipped his face up to the sun. The cool breeze felt marvellous even as the sun warmed him. He tightened his grip on Bodie's middle. Bodie patted his glove-covered fingers. Doyle sighed, content. 

The day was beautiful. Ross had been tolerable. She'd picked their brains for forty-five minutes before she called Cowley, informing him that his top team would be on task at 8 am Monday morning. 

All was right with Doyle's world. Well, almost. While he'd spoken to Jane twice since he'd discovered that she was his mum, he hadn't seen her face to face. Not that he was worried. A bit anxious maybe. Jane was a good woman. She loved Doyle. They would talk this through like two adults. They would find common ground and he would still have his family. 

\------------------------------------

In front of Jane's semi-detached, Bodie pulled the bike close to the kerb. He turned off the key, removing his helmet. Doyle took off his own helmet. He ran his fingers through his hair. 

"Ray!" 

"Jane!" Doyle waved at the woman standing at the door. She smiled at him as she waved a greeting. 

"Go on, mate. I'll wait here for a bit." 

"Cheers," Doyle said. He climbed off the bike and as he walked up the pavement, he tossed his riding gloves into the upturned helmet. 

Jane waited until Doyle got closer. "How are you, darling?" 

"Nervous," Doyle admitted. He gave her a quick smile. "Are you upset?" 

She smiled. "No. Well, a little. I'm nervous also. It was a harsh thing for you to discover. I'm sorry." 

"No need to apologise," Doyle said. He climbed the steps and stood beside his aunt. "You did what you thought was best." 

Jane's eyes filled and her lips trembled. "Oh, Ray." 

Doyle swallowed and held out his arms. Jane latched onto him. He hugged her tightly. "It's all right." 

"I'm the one who should be saying that to you." 

Doyle chuckled softly. "You always were the sensible one in the family." 

Jane pulled back to look up at Doyle. "I truly am sorry you found out my deep, dark secret. It wasn't fair to you for me not to have told you." 

"Jane, I understand. Those were different times. You'd have been ruined, an outcast. What happened wasn't your fault. You did your best for me." Doyle stifled a sniffle and blew out a shaky breath. He'd better get a grip before he began blubbering like a baby. 

Jane put both hands on his upper arms. She looked at him intently. "Your mum and dad loved you very much. They considered you their son from the moment they saw you." 

"I know they loved me." Doyle forced a smile. "Can I ask...?" He paused. 

"Ask me anything, darling." 

"Did you ever, you know, think of me as your son?" 

She gave a watery smile. "I didn't think about it. I was only grateful that I could be part of your life." She looked away for a moment before she met his gaze. "In my heart, you were and always will be my son." 

"I loved my parents." Doyle looked into Jane's clear green eyes. His mum had had those same colour eyes. "I was a lousy teenager." 

Jane laughed. "All teenagers are lousy." 

"True." Doyle looked down the pavement at his partner sitting patiently on the bike. He reckoned that he might as well get everything out in the open. If there was to be a rejection, now would be the time. "Bodie, he's my partner." 

"Yes, I know that." 

Doyle held her intent stare. "He's my partner more than with the mob." 

"Ah, well, that's different then," she admitted. 

Doyle looked around nervously. "We probably should go inside. The walls have ears sometimes. Neighbours 'n all." 

"Well, call him in for tea. I'm sure he's hungry." She waggled her fingers at Bodie. He mirrored her greeting, grinning at her. 

"Is it this easy? You and me and Bodie?" Doyle asked, not sure he could believe that she was willing to acknowledge that her secret was now out and that he had a man for a lover. "You're okay with all of this?" 

Jane gave Doyle a stern look. "Would you feel better if I told you that you were disgusting? That I hated you? That you were the cause of all the misery in my life? How about in the world?" 

"I sometimes wonder..." Doyle muttered. 

Jane gave him a thump on the head. It wasn't hard but he was shocked at how quickly his annoyance flared. When he glared at her, she laughed, and the melodic sound reminded Doyle of his childhood. Cold nights in front of the fireplace, playing cards and drawing pictures with Aunt Jane; his parents watching from the sofa as they read the evening paper together. His anger melted away as fast as it had come over him. She gave him a look of exasperation when she pointed her finger at him. "I'm going to grill you to within an inch of your life, so I'd best feed you both first." 

"Sorry," he said again. "I hope I'm not making a mess of all this. I need you in my life." 

"Young man, this is something we'll work through together. Do you understand me?" Jane said, her hands on her hips. She reminded Doyle of his mum; he suddenly felt like the eight year old child he'd once been. 

Doyle saluted. "Yes, ma'am." 

Jane gave him an exasperated glance before she chuckled. "That's what I like: obedience and courtesy. You'd do best to remember to use those more often." 

Doyle rolled his eyes. "I'll remember that." 

Jane harrumphed before she called out, "Bodie!" 

Bodie was off the bike and trotting up the pavement so quickly that Doyle thought he'd sprouted wings on his boots. 

"Hungry?" Doyle asked, not able to hide his smirk. 

"For Miss Jane's grub, definitely!" 

Jane smiled. "Come on but I've already told Raymond, you'd best be ready to answer some tough questions." 

"Yes, ma'am," Bodie responded, pretending to tip his non-existent cap. "Could we eat first?" he asked plaintively, rubbing his belly. He looked at Doyle and sniggered. "Raymond." 

"Don't mock me auntie," Doyle said, slugging Bodie on the arm. Bodie retaliated quickly. A small scuffle ensued. 

"Boys." 

Doyle stopped. "I was winning." 

"No, I was," Bodie said firmly. 

They followed Jane into the house. "Go on with you. Wash those motorcycle-grease hands while I set the table," Jane said with a laugh. 

Doyle grinned. "I seem to remember you liking a bike ride at one time." 

"Don't be telling the secrets about my wild youth, Raymond. A woman needs a few secrets." 

Doyle hurried off to wash. Bodie followed close behind him. Once they were out of sight, Bodie swatted Doyle's bum. 

"Moron," Doyle said over his shoulder. 

"Love you too," Bodie said quietly. "I like her." 

Doyle smiled. At the basin in the bathroom, he lathered his hands with the soap. "Yeah. Me too." 

\-------------------------------------- 

Doyle unzipped Bodie's flies. "Christ, you've got a fairly nice cock."

Bodie gasped and fell back onto the bed. Doyle yanked off Bodie's trousers and briefs. He stood over his lover, grinning down at him. 

"Fairly nice?" Bodie said with affronted dignity. He sniffed. "I think it's spectacular." He stroked himself and sighed happily. "Very nice actually." 

"It was a good day, wasn't it," Doyle said. 

"Yeah. Back to work. Listening to Father moan and groan. All is right with my world." Bodie cupped his own balls before he caressed his cock. 

"Stop that," Doyle said, smacking his hand away. "That's mine. I shall want to use it in my own good time." 

"Don't make me wait too long-" 

"My pleasure. And speaking of my pleasure..." Bodie pouted. 

Doyle gave a snigger of fond exasperation. "All right. It's always your pleasure you're worrying about. Come on, then. I've a mind to fuck you in the shower." 

Bodie leapt to his feet. "Well, hurry up then. I'll start the water running. You get the lube." 

Doyle looked after his partner. Bodie's firm arse made him smile and his own cock began to grow. He shook his head and undressed, found the lube and joined Bodie.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank my editors/betas, Dawnwind, JoJo and Sally Fell, for their invaluable help with this story. 
> 
> A big thank you to KrisserCI5 for her wonderful art. 
> 
> Thanks also to my fellow mods at CI5 Box of Tricks: draycevixen, sineala, norfolkdumpling and saintvic. You guys are amazing and it's a pleasure working with you. 
> 
> This is for my sweetie, Chris. Love you.


End file.
